Chapter 1 #2
“Yes. Sorry. That sounded smoother in my head.”
“It actually didn’t sound smooth at all,” I said, then winced for the third time in as many minutes. “Wow, okay, that came out harsher than I meant.”
He blinked, then a quick, startled chuckle escaped him.
The sound caught me off guard in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It was warm and genuine, and I wanted to hear it again.
Wanted to be the reason for it.
“I don’t do smooth,” he admitted. “You probably noticed.”
“Just a little,” I said. “But for the record, I like sea holly because it’s a little weird. Spiky. Not too perfect. It makes everything around it more interesting.”
He studied me like I’d said something more profound than I had. My heart gave an undignified little kick.
Get it together, Bascombe.
“So,” I continued, clearing my throat. “What about something simple in here? Maybe a cluster of mason jars with herbs by the sink. A bowl of clementines, a cutting board with cookies for the illusion that someone’s been baking. Nothing over the top. Just a warm, lived-in Christmas.”
“That sounds good,” he said quietly. “I don’t entertain much. Or at all, really. So I’ll trust your judgment.”
“Dangerous move,” I said lightly. “I’ve been known to abuse my power. One minute you’re approving a cluster of rosemary by the sink, the next there’s a twelve-foot-tall Christmas tree in your foyer.”
His eyes widened, a look of horror suffusing his features.
“I’m kidding,” I added quickly. “Mostly.”
Another tiny laugh. “Okay. This is fine. It’s good. You’re good at what you do.”
The compliment, clumsy as it was, landed in a spot that had felt empty for far too long.
Being told I was good at my job shouldn’t have felt so surprising, but after months of scraping by, taking whatever tiny orders came my way, and watching my old storefront get turned into a boutique real estate office, the compliment settled inside of me like a small, glowing thing.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice coming out soft.
Ava glanced at her watch. “I’ll leave you two to discuss any other details. I have a meeting with Juniper Hart I need to prepare for.” She rolled her eyes. Juniper was … a lot. I had to meditate both before and after I spoke with her. “Holly, if you need anything, just let me know.”
She slipped out, closing the back door behind her.
Luke shifted away from the doorframe and stuffed his hands back into his pockets, rocking onto his heels.
“I really do like your work,” he said, his eyes on the far wall, like looking at me directly might turn him to stone.
“When the committee sent over the proposals, yours was the only one that didn’t look like a catalog.
That’s not a criticism. I just …” He trailed off, grimacing.
“You didn’t want your house to look like it cost a million dollars to decorate?” I guessed.
In preparation for this meeting, I’d done my homework.
Not just googling “Luke Byron tech billionaire,” but actually reading every article I could find about him.
Ones that painted him as an anomaly in Silicon Valley—someone who gave away most of what he earned, who lived somewhat modestly despite his wealth.
A man who seemed almost embarrassed by his success, who wasn’t like other tech bros who owned multiple yachts, launched rockets into space, or bought elections.
He’d created something that helped people find love, then quietly disappeared from the spotlight the moment it was feasible to do so.
His gaze snapped back to me. “Yes. Exactly. This place is special. Unique. It was here long before I was, and will be here long after I’ve gone. This house knows what it is, and what it isn’t. I want the holiday decor to reflect that.”
“That’s kind of how I feel about Mistletoe Bay,” I said before I could stop myself. “People with money come in sometimes and try to turn it into whatever they think a quaint coastal town should be. Nantuckify it. But the town already doesn’t need to change.”
He studied me for a beat with an intense, almost unnerving focus that made me feel like I was standing under a spotlight. “You’re from here.”
“Born and raised,” I supplied. “My parents opened Blossom & Vine back in the sixties, the flower shop on Main Street, before—”
Before everything went to shit.
My throat gave a small, warning squeeze, and my eyes started to burn.
I forced myself to swallow past the lump and pasted on a bright smile. “Anyway. They’re retired now. Living in Florida and playing lots of golf. You get the idea.”
Luke didn’t look convinced by my breezy tone. “That’s the shop that closed this summer, right? Some weird situation with the owner and a developer?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Mistletoe Bay was a small town where gossip traveled fast. Even for a man notorious for keeping to himself, word would have reached him about the shady, underhanded way I’d been booted from the space so the owner could install yet another real estate developer as its tenant.
“That was me,” I said lightly. “I’m operating out of a charmingly drafty studio above Wharfside Bookshop now.
There’s a suspicious stain on the wall I do not want to ask about, and there are inch-wide gaps in the floorboards, but on the plus side, I get to eavesdrop on everyone downstairs buying romance and self-help books. ”
One corner of his mouth ticked upward. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About your shop.”
I gave a small shrug, the kind I’d practiced in the mirror for when people asked about my failing business. “It was a rough year, but I’ll rebuild. I always do.”
It wasn’t just the shop, though, that was bad enough.
It was my fiancé not showing up for our wedding because he’d decided he was in love with his much younger sister’s best friend.
Thousands of dollars in deposits I couldn’t get back.
Months of feeling too humiliated to step into my favorite places around town because everyone knew about my shame.
Watching friends fall in love and move away while I cheered them on and pretended my own life wasn’t crumbling all around me.
“And is this job part of rebuilding?” he asked.
I hadn’t expected Luke to ask so bluntly. Or the genuine interest in his voice at how I might answer.
“Yes,” I said simply. “The whole damn town turns out for the Candlelight Walk, debating for days afterward which houses looked the best. If folks see my work, I might actually be able to afford more than instant ramen for dinner.”
He frowned, his mouth turning down at the corners. “You should charge more.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Tell that to people who have no qualms about pointing out how grocery store flowers are much cheaper. They love my work, but don’t see the actual labor that goes into it. Not to mention the cost or my years of experience.”
“I don’t think that,” he said quickly. “About your work, I mean.”
“Good,” I said, feeling that tiny glow inside me flare brighter. “Because you’re about to write me a check that will pay my heating bill for the next couple of months.”
His ears went pink at the reminder of our wealth disparity. “Oh, right.”
An awkward silence stretched between us where I could practically see him trying to figure out what to say next, his brilliant mind probably running through two dozen options and discarding them all.
“So,” I said, giving him an out. “I’ll get you a timeline and a list of what I’ll need access to and when. Sound good?”
He nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face. “Yes. Of course. Whatever you need, Holly.”
Dangerous words, Mr. Byron.
Before I could make a joke about black AmEx cards, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He flinched, fishing it out and glancing at the screen, his posture becoming rigid and closed off.
“I’m sorry,” he said, already backing toward the hallway. “I have to take this. We can—uh—Ava has all the details. You and she can … coordinate.”
And just like that, he was gone again, retreating down the hall with quick, quiet steps.
“Right,” I muttered. “Good talk.”
I pulled in a slow breath and gathered up my portfolio, walking back through the rooms I’d discussed with Ava, taking snapshots with my phone of the space now that I was actually in it and not just scouring internet photos.
I paused in the front hall, my reflection staring back at me from the glass of the sidelights by the door.
Winter-pale skin dotted with freckles. Hair scraped into a tight ponytail because I’d been up late last night wiring garlands for another client.
“Okay,” I told the girl in the glass quietly. “He’s weird, but you’ve worked with weirder.”
The reflection lifted her chin.
By the time I was done here, the Stephen Crossmore house would be the talk of the town.
And if somewhere along the way, a certain nerdy, skittish, ridiculously handsome man realized he didn’t disappear every time I walked into a room?
Well. That would just be a bonus.