Chapter 6 #2
I make my way through the crowd toward the Harbor Arts Collective booth, where Marigold's wreaths and handcrafted candles have drawn an appreciative audience.
Already, I can see our marketing strategy at work; several items bear small tags reading "As Featured at the Harborlight Resort," linking the local artisans directly to Bash's luxury property.
Community integration, exactly as we planned.
"There's Mrs. Sinclair!" I hear someone call, and I turn to find a group of women I vaguely recognize from the Chamber of Commerce. "We were just talking about your beautiful wedding. So romantic!"
I slip easily into the role we've crafted. "Thank you. It was a whirlwind, but when you know, you know." The words flow naturally, practiced over weeks of similar conversations.
"And where is that handsome husband of yours tonight?" one of them asks, peering around as if Bash might materialize if summoned.
"Meeting me here shortly," I explain, glancing at my watch. Six-fifteen, he's running late. "Business calls never end, even during the holidays."
The women nod sympathetically, and we chat for a few more minutes before I excuse myself to continue toward the Harbor Arts booth.
As I walk, I spot familiar faces from around town, many of whom wave or call greetings.
In just four weeks, I've gone from being Charlie Davis, the local girl who went away to college and came back with a marketing degree, to Mrs. Sinclair, half of Starlight Bay's most glamorous couple.
The transformation is as unsettling as it is exhilarating.
"Charlie!" Mireille calls from the hot chocolate stand run by Lil's Sweet Treats. "Over here!"
I change course, making my way to where my friend is bundled in a colorful scarf, her cheeks pink from the cold. "Hey, you," I greet her, accepting the steaming cup she offers. "How's the event planning going?"
"Chaotic but fun," she says with her characteristic enthusiasm. "Evander's been amazing, helping me coordinate everything even though we're technically competitors."
I smile, genuinely happy for my friend's professional success and blossoming relationship with Evander Prescott. Their love story is real, no contracts, no expiration dates, just authentic connection.
The pang of envy that shoots through me is as surprising as it is unwelcome.
"Have you seen Bash?" I ask, sipping the rich chocolate. "He was supposed to meet me fifteen minutes ago."
Mireille shakes her head. "Not yet. But I did see that rival marketing exec talking to some of the resort staff earlier. What's his name? Evans?"
My stomach tightens. "Evans was here? When?"
"About half an hour ago. He seemed very... interested in the resort's setup at the market." She studies my face. "Is that bad?"
"Maybe not," I say, though unease crawls up my spine. "Just... professional competition."
Mireille isn't fooled. "Charlie, what's going on? You've been off all week."
I hesitate, torn between my need for confidentiality and my desperate desire to confide in someone. "It's complicated," I say finally. "The agency wants to take me off Bash's account because of our relationship."
"Because you're too good at your job?" Mireille scoffs. "The Harborlight campaign is all anyone in town can talk about. You've made that place the center of Starlight Bay's holiday season in less than a month."
"That's not quite how Miranda sees it." I stare into my hot chocolate, avoiding Mireille's perceptive gaze. "She thinks I've crossed professional lines."
"Well, you did marry the client," Mireille points out with a small smile. "That's a pretty definitive line to cross."
I can't help but laugh, the tension breaking slightly. "Fair point."
Mireille's expression softens. "But it's more than that now, isn't it? I've seen you two together, Charlie. That's not just marketing strategy."
The directness of her observation catches me off guard. "I...”
"Charlie." Bash's voice cuts through the crowd as he approaches, looking unfairly handsome in a charcoal overcoat and blue scarf that matches his eyes. "Sorry I'm late. Investor call ran long."
"No problem," I say automatically, pushing aside the conversation with Mireille. "You're here now."
He greets Mireille warmly, then turns his full attention to me, his arm sliding around my waist with practiced ease. "You look cold," he observes, pulling me closer to his side. "Let's walk. Get your blood flowing."
We bid Mireille goodbye and begin making our way through the market, stopping occasionally at stalls to admire handcrafted ornaments or sample local treats.
To anyone watching, we're the perfect couple enjoying a holiday outing, Bash's hand resting at the small of my back, my head occasionally leaning against his shoulder, our steps naturally in sync.
"How was your meeting with Miranda?" he asks as we pause at a booth selling sea glass jewelry.
"Predictable," I reply, examining a delicate bracelet. "She wants me off the account, I refused, she implied I'm risking my professional future."
Bash's jaw tightens. "I could speak with her."
"And prove her point that I can't handle my own professional conflicts?" I shake my head. "No, thank you."
"You shouldn't have to deal with this at all." His fingers trace small circles at the base of my spine, a gesture that's become his unconscious habit when he's thinking. "The campaign is exceeding all projections. The resort is nearly at capacity for Christmas. Your strategy is working perfectly."
"Our strategy," I correct him, setting down the bracelet.
"Your idea," he insists. "Your creativity. Your understanding of what would resonate."
The genuine admiration in his voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "Well, you're the one who had to legally bind yourself to a stranger, so I think you deserve some credit too."
Bash's hand stills on my back. "You're not a stranger, Charlie."
The simple statement carries a weight that renders me momentarily speechless. Four weeks ago, we were strangers, client and vendor, two people with aligned professional interests and nothing more.
Now I know how he likes his coffee, black, with a hint of cinnamon, that he hums unconsciously when reviewing reports, that he sleeps on his right side with one arm always reaching for me.
I know the scar on his left shoulder came from a sailing accident when he was twelve, that his favorite comfort food is his grandmother's lasagna, that he donates anonymously to a scholarship fund for foster children because he believes opportunity shouldn't depend on circumstance.
And he knows me, my habit of reading the end of books first, my collection of vintage postcards from cities I've never visited, my secret dream of writing a novel someday.
He knows I'm terrified of thunderstorms but love the rain, that I can't stand the taste of licorice, that I visit my father's grave every Sunday with fresh flowers.
No, we're not strangers anymore. And that realization fills me with equal parts wonder and dread.
"Charlie?" Bash's voice pulls me back to the present, concern evident in his tone. "Where did you go just now?"
I shake my head, forcing a smile. "Just thinking. It's been an intense day."
He studies me for a moment, then nods toward a quieter corner of the market where several heat lamps create a cozy pocket away from the main crowd. "Let's take a break."
We make our way to a small bench beneath a towering pine tree strung with white lights. Bash brushes a dusting of snow from the seat before we sit, his thigh pressed warmly against mine as we watch the market activity from our sheltered spot.
"I saw Evans earlier," I say after a comfortable silence. "Mireille mentioned he was talking to some of the resort staff."
Bash nods, unsurprised. "He approached me directly after my investor call. Offered to smooth the transition if I decided to move the account to his team."
My stomach drops. "And?"
"And I told him I'm perfectly satisfied with my current marketing team, particularly its director." Bash's hand finds mine, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. "He didn't take the hint, so I became more explicit."
Despite my concern, a smile tugs at my lips. "How explicit?"
"I believe my exact words were, My wife isn't just the best marketing mind in the agency, she's the best in the industry. If you think I'd sacrifice that expertise for the sake of avoiding small-minded corporate politics, you fundamentally misunderstand how I do business.”
Warmth spreads through me, and not just from the nearby heat lamp. "You said that? To Evans?"
"I did." Bash turns to face me, his expression suddenly serious. "Charlie, I need you to understand something. Our arrangement may have started as a marketing strategy, but my respect for your professional abilities is completely genuine. I wouldn't work with anyone else, marriage or no marriage."
The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable, and something shifts in my chest, a tightness I hadn't realized I was carrying begins to ease.
"Thank you," I say softly. "That means more than you know."
Bash's eyes search mine, a question forming in his gaze.
Before he can voice it, a familiar figure approaches.
Scott Monaghan, a real estate developer known for his aggressive tactics and questionable ethics.
He's also a rival investor who lost the bid on the Harborlight property to Bash's group last year.
"Sinclair," Scott greets with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "And the lovely Mrs. Sinclair. Quite the charming display you two are putting on."
Bash's posture stiffens beside me, though his expression remains pleasantly neutral. "Scott. Enjoying the market?"
"Oh, immensely." Scotts gaze shifts to me, assessing in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Though not as much as I'm enjoying watching your little... performance."
Beside me, Bash goes very still. "I'm not sure I follow."