Chapter 8
Bash
Investors talk about diversification to mitigate risk. Spread assets across multiple sectors so that when one fails, others can compensate. It's a basic financial strategy.
What they don't tell you is this principle doesn't work for emotional investment.
When all your feelings are concentrated in a single asset, a specific person with chestnut hair and clever hazel eyes, there's no diversification, no hedging against loss.
Just terrifying, exhilarating, all-in vulnerability.
I stare at the reports on my desk without truly seeing them. The Harborlight's numbers are exceeding all projections, ninety-two percent occupancy for the week before Christmas, fully booked for Christmas itself. The Sinclair Romance Package has a waiting list. The investors are thrilled.
Yet all I can think about is the calendar on my phone, counting down our remaining time. Two weeks left in our contract. Two weeks until Charlie and I are supposed to quietly disentangle our lives, file for annulment, and return to our separate existences.
The thought makes me physically ill.
"You look terrible," Anthony observes, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "Trouble in paradise?"
I glare at him. "Don't you have actual work to do?"
"This is actual work. Making sure the CEO isn't having a breakdown two weeks before Christmas is definitely in my job description." He leans forward, suddenly serious. "What's going on, Bash? And don't say 'nothing.' You've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes."
I close the report, conceding defeat. "It's complicated."
"Your fake marriage turned real, and now you're panicking because the contract ends in two weeks?" Anthony suggests, raising an eyebrow.
Sometimes I regret hiring people smarter than me. "How did you...”
"I have eyes," he interrupts with a dismissive wave. "And unlike everyone else around here, I'm not afraid to call you on your bullshit. You're in love with her."
The word lands like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. Love. Is that what this is? This constant awareness of her presence, this ache when we're apart, this terrifying feeling that she's become essential to my existence?
"That wasn't part of the plan," I manage to say, the understatement of the century.
Anthony snorts. "No shit. The plan was to boost holiday bookings through a publicity stunt. Mission accomplished, by the way." He gestures to the reports. "So what's the problem? Tell her how you feel. Tear up the contract. Live happily ever after in your luxury resort."
If only it were that simple. "You're overlooking a critical variable."
"Which is?"
"Whether she feels the same way." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "This started as a business arrangement for Charlie. A way to save her career and prove her value to the agency. She's invested in its success, not..." I trail off, unable to finish the thought.
"Not in you?" Anthony fills in, his tone gentler than I deserve. "Have you actually talked to her about this, or are you just making assumptions based on your deep-seated conviction that you're fundamentally unlovable?"
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. "That's not...”
"It absolutely is," he cuts me off. "I've worked with you for five years, Bash.
You build beautiful things and then walk away before anyone can tell you they're not good enough.
You end every relationship the moment it gets serious, convincing yourself it's because you're too busy, too focused on work, too whatever.
The truth is, you're terrified of someone seeing the real you and deciding to leave. "
His words hit too close to home, striking nerves I prefer to leave undisturbed. "This isn't a therapy session, Anthony."
"Clearly not, or you'd be making progress.
" He leans forward, all traces of humor gone from his expression.
"You've found something real with Charlie.
Anyone with functioning eyeballs can see it.
The question is, are you brave enough to fight for it, or will you hide behind that contract and let the best thing that's ever happened to you walk away? "
Before I can form a response, my phone chimes with a text from Charlie: Snowed in at the resort. Thinking of commissioning a special gift from Sea & Shard Studio for our suite. Call when you can.
Sea & Shard. The local glass studio where we'd created a piece together during the Harbor Arts event. Where I'd instinctively protected her from sparks, held her in a way that felt more natural than breathing.
"I need to make a call," I tell Anthony, already reaching for my phone.
He stands, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "About time."
Once he's gone, I dial Sea & Shard Studio directly. Not Charlie, not yet. I need to have this in place before I talk to her.
"Sea & Shard, this is Talia speaking."
"This is Sebastian Sinclair. I'd like to commission a custom piece."
"Mr. Sinclair! Of course. Did you have something specific in mind?"
I hesitate only briefly. "A sea glass ornament. Something that could be engraved."
"We can certainly do that. Any particular colors or design elements you'd like to incorporate?"
"Blues and greens," I decide, thinking of the harbor waters visible from our suite windows. "And for the engraving…Choose Us."
There's a brief pause. "That's lovely," Talia says, genuine warmth in her voice. "When would you need this by?"
"As soon as possible. Price is no object."
We finalize the details, and I end the call with an unfamiliar feeling expanding in my chest. Hope, perhaps. Or terror. The two seem indistinguishable at this point.
Turning to the window, I watch fat snowflakes drift past the glass. The blizzard that Charlie and I had leveraged for publicity has arrived in earnest, blanketing Starlight Bay in white. It's beautiful, transformative, turning the familiar into something new and unexplored.
Rather like Charlie has done to my carefully ordered life.
I text her back: Stuck at the office for another hour. Will brave the blizzard to get home to you. Stay warm.
Home. Not the suite, not the resort, but home. Because anywhere Charlie is has become home to me, and the realization is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
One hour. Sixty minutes to decide whether I'm brave enough to do what Anthony suggested, to tear up the contract, to put aside the exit strategy, to ask Charlie Davis to choose us for real.
To choose me.
By the time I make it back to the Harborlight, the snow is falling so heavily that the resort's entrance is barely visible from the street. The doorman rushes forward with an umbrella, though it does little against the sideways flurries.
"Quite the storm, Mr. Sinclair," he comments as he helps brush snow from my coat. "They're saying we could get up to eighteen inches before morning."
"Perfect weather for staying in," I reply, stamping snow from my boots. "Is Mrs. Sinclair upstairs?"
"Yes, sir. She returned about an hour ago with quite a few shopping bags. Said something about supplies for the snowstorm."
I smile, remembering our strategy discussion at the Christmas Market last night. Photos of us stocking up for a romantic snow day, looking utterly delighted at the prospect of being trapped together. Charlie always delivers on a campaign promise.
The elevator ride to the penthouse feels longer than usual, my thoughts racing ahead to what I plan to say.
I've never been good at emotional declarations, prefer action over words, tangible results over feelings.
But Charlie deserves more than that. She deserves the truth, plainly stated.
The question is, am I brave enough to offer it?
When the doors open to our suite, I'm greeted by the scent of something delicious cooking and the sound of Charlie singing softly along with a jazz rendition of Let It Snow. The domesticity of the scene hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath for a moment.
I find her in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove while swaying gently to the music. She's wearing leggings and one of my sweaters, her hair piled messily on top of her head, and she's never looked more beautiful to me.
"Honey, I'm home," I say, the joke falling flat as the words catch in my throat with unexpected emotion.
Charlie turns, her face lighting up in a way that makes my chest ache.
"You made it!" She sets down her spoon and crosses to me, rising on her toes to brush snow from my hair. "I was starting to worry. The roads look terrible."
"Worth braving the elements," I tell her, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. The gesture has become a habit, a small intimacy I can't seem to resist. "What are you making? It smells amazing."
"My grandmother's chicken and dumplings," she says, returning to the stove. "Comfort food for a snowy night. I thought we could eat by the fire, maybe open some wine?"
"Sounds perfect." I shrug out of my coat, watching as she moves confidently around the kitchen. There's an ease to her presence here now, a sense of belonging that wasn't there four weeks ago. "How was your day? Any more fallout from Scott’s comments last night?"
Charlie shakes her head. "Nothing direct, but I made sure we were seen buying blizzard supplies at all the right shops. Plenty of photos circulating of us looking disgustingly in love at Lil's Sweet Treats and the bookstore."
"Disgustingly in love," I repeat, the phrase catching in my throat. "Convincing, I hope?"
She glances at me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "Very. I had at least three people tell me they've never seen you look so happy."
I move closer, unable to maintain distance when she's standing there in my sweater, smelling like home. "They're right."