Chapter 26
Hannah
The problem with hosting a community event was that the community showed up.
Soon Donnelly’s would be packed with families, their kids vibrating with pre-Santa excitement while parents clutched coffee cups like lifelines.
Which meant I needed to finish prep now—hanging the last of the garland, arranging the cookie decorating station, testing the hot chocolate machine to fend off a cocoa-related breakdown in front of forty screaming children.
My phone buzzed against the bar top.
I almost ignored it. I had icing to portion out and craft supplies to organize before the doors opened. But I glanced down.
From: Andrea Jones, Director of HR, The Sinclair Group
Subject: Interview Request - CFO Position
My mouth went dry. I picked up the phone, my hand trembling as I opened the email.
Dear Ms. Donnelly,
Your resume has been forwarded to our executive search committee for the Chief Financial Officer position at The Sinclair Group. We would like to schedule an in-person interview to discuss your qualifications and experience.
The position reports directly to the CEO and oversees all financial operations for our portfolio of companies. Qualified candidates typically have 15-20 years of progressive experience in financial leadership roles, with a proven track record in strategic planning, M&A, and team management.
Best regards,
Andrea Jones
I read it twice. Then a third time.
CFO. Chief Financial Officer. Fifteen to twenty years of experience. I had twelve, eight of those at Callihan & Murphy, working my way up from junior accountant to senior—and I couldn’t hide the way that ended on my resume.
“What are you spiraling about over here?” Teresa leaned over the bar, brushing her red sweater to remove flour from the cookie station.
“I’m not spiraling, I’m… analyzing.”
“Over-analyzing, maybe.” She leaned against the bar. “What’s on the phone?”
I bit my lip, then blurted, “An interview request. It probably won’t turn into anything.”
Teresa squealed loud enough that Uncle Mike looked up from where he was hanging twinkle lights above the window booths. "Oh my gosh, where?"
I cleared my throat. “At The Sinclair Group.”
It took her a second. “Isn’t that where Connor works?”
I nodded.
“So what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem?” I held up my fingers. “I’m not qualified to be a CFO. I didn’t apply for the position. And—”
“Your boyfriend works there,” Teresa supplied.
“Not my boyfriend.”
“Han.” She gave me a look. “The man makes you coffee every morning and makes you come every night. What else do you need?”
“Relationship semantics aside,” Uncle Mike cut in, joining us at the bar. “What’s the actual problem?”
“What if Connor made a call?” The words tumbled out. “What if they’re only interviewing me because I’m his…”
“Wannabe girlfriend?” Teresa offered, unhelpfully.
“Sure. That.” I set my phone down. “It feels like nepotism.”
That’s what I’d seen at Callihan & Murphy—me working my ass off for every promotion while Sebastian glided up because his dad was a partner.
“Nepotism’s worked out pretty well for you so far,” Mike said, shrugging. “I only hired you because you’re my niece.”
“Yeah, but I work my ass off here.”
“Exactly.” He flicked tinsel off his sweater. “You got the interview because I knew you. You keep the job because you’re the best bartender I’ve got.”
“But I didn’t apply—”
“Eddie’s cousin got me my interview at the spa,” Teresa broke in. “And you know what? I’m fucking great at my job. The door opened because of who I knew, but I walked through it and proved I belonged there.”
“Networking’s how the world works, kiddo.” Mike’s voice went gentler. “Connor opened a door, but what you do when you walk through it? That’s all you.”
I leaned against the back bar, my legs suddenly unsteady. Through the front windows, parents were starting to arrive early, kids pressing their faces against the glass. “What if I’m not qualified? Fifteen to twenty years of experience, and I have twelve. And the CEO—”
Reports directly to the CEO.
I swallowed hard. “The CEO is Victoria Blackstone. The last time I saw her, I was so hungover I could barely function.”
And wearing nothing but Connor’s 49ers t-shirt. How could I possibly interview with her? Report to her?
“So?” Teresa said. “She’s human. She’s been hungover before.”
“And your best case scenario?” Mike added. “You get the job you’ve been working toward your whole career.”
But I was remembering the bathroom at Alex and Grace’s wedding. Victoria, exhausted and frustrated, venting about the CFO search. My father wants someone who’ll maintain the status quo. The board wants someone experienced.
And I’d told her: If you’re looking for someone who will push back when it matters, the filters are designed to screen those people out.
Maybe she was looking for something different than the posted job description. Maybe this was my chance.
“If you don’t reply that you’re interested,” Teresa said, already reaching for my phone, “I will.”
“Don’t you dare—” I snatched it back, my heart hammering.
They both stared at me, waiting.
I looked down at the email, my thumbs hovered over the screen. Then I started typing.
Ms. Jones,
I’m interested. Please let me know when to be there and what to bring.
Best regards,
Hannah Donnelly
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
Teresa whooped. Mike squeezed my shoulder. “That’s my girl.”
“I need to talk to Connor about this,” I said, checking my phone, knowing that he was scheduled to arrive any minute.
As if I’d summoned him, the front door opened and Connor walked in looking like he’d been through a war.
Not physically—he was immaculate as always, dark jeans and a gray sweater. But his posture seemed heavy, and his eyes haunted.
And all the thoughts about the job flew out of my head as I met him halfway across the room. “How’d it go?”
“Fine. The kids loved it.”
“Connor.” I lowered my voice, aware of the families milling around. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just tired.” He looked past me at the chaos of the setup. “What do you need me to do?”
What I needed was for him to sit down and drink something stronger than hot chocolate, but I knew better than to push.
“Sound system.”
Something flickered in his eyes—relief, maybe, at having something concrete to fix. “I can do that. Where—”
“Storage room. Uncle Mike has the speakers.”
He was already moving. I watched him go, worry sitting heavy in my chest.
Grace and Alex arrived five minutes later, Alex carrying a full garment bag. He’d have to put his suit on soon, but for now he was taking advantage of the break to gulp down water and look moderately human.
Ruby exploded through the door behind them, dragged by Grace’s brother Elijah, who looked like he’d been chasing her for the last six blocks.
“Is Santa here? Is he here?” Ruby bounced on her toes, scanning the room.
“He’s here,” Grace said, laughing. “But he needs five minutes.”
“Okay!” Ruby zoomed off to inspect the cookie decorating station, Elijah trailing after her with the resigned expression of a man who’d lost control of the situation hours ago.
I went to check on Connor, who’d somehow already installed the new sound system and was testing the microphone levels with the focused intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
“This should work better,” he said without looking up. “The frequency range is wider, and I’ve set up a backup battery pack in case—”
“Uncle Connor!” Ruby slammed into his legs with the force of a small missile. "Did you see Santa? He’s HERE! And there’s COOKIES! And GLITTER!”
And just like that, the haunted look in Connor’s eyes… softened.
“Glitter, huh?” He crouched down to her level, the tension bleeding out of him. “Did you get any in your hair yet?”
“Not yet, but I’m gonna!” She grabbed his hand. “Come see my letter to Santa! I asked for a puppy and a trampoline!”
Connor let himself be dragged toward the craft station, still carrying whatever the hospital had dredged up but also lighter, somehow. Like Ruby’s chaos was the antidote he needed.
Grace sidled up beside me. “He okay?”
“I don’t know. Hospital was rough, I think.”
She nodded, watching Connor help Ruby tape up her letter. “First time back since his mom died.”
Oh. That explained the hollow look, the white-knuckle grip on logistics.
Ruby was now explaining the intricacies of My Little Pony character hierarchies to Connor, who nodded along like this was information of national importance.
“You should keep him,” Grace said, bumping my shoulder. Before I could respond, Ruby shrieked with delight—Alex had emerged from the back room in full Santa regalia.
The next hour was controlled chaos. Kids lined up to sit on Santa’s lap while parents took photos.
The cookie decorating station turned into a sprinkle bomb.
Connor fixed the jammed hot chocolate machine and somehow also prevented three craft disasters while I handled the constant stream of “where’s the bathroom?
” and “my kid is allergic to food coloring” crises.
It should have been stressful. It was stressful. But it was also… fun.
Then I felt a tug on my apron. “Hannah! You have to come see!” Ruby dragged me toward the bar, where Grace was hanging something above the counter with suspicious ceremony.
Mistletoe.
“This is how I tricked Grace and Alex into their first kiss,” Ruby announced to anyone within hearing distance—so the entire bar. “So now it’s the kissing spot!”
Grace caught my eye and grinned, absolutely shameless as Ruby dragged Connor over too. “Uncle Connor! Hannah! You have to kiss!”
Connor raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement breaking through the exhaustion.
“She’s very insistent,” I said.
“Alex’s kid,” he said, as if that explained everything. His hand found the small of my back, warm and steady. “For the children?”
I laughed despite myself. “For Ruby’s extensive mistletoe campaign.”
The kiss was supposed to be a quick peck for the crowd. But Connor’s hand tightened on my waist, and my fingers curled into his sweater, and suddenly it wasn’t quick at all.
When we broke apart, Ruby was cheering, Grace looked far too self-satisfied, and a few parents in line waiting for Santa applauded—and one covered her son’s eyes.
“Well,” I said, a little breathless. “That was—”
“Yeah,” Connor agreed.
Ruby had moved on to her next victim, but I was still standing there with Connor’s hand on my waist, his eyes locked on mine, the noise of the party fading into background static.
Uncle Mike appeared with a tray of cookies. “You two want to actually help, or just stand there making eyes at each other?”
Connor busied himself with hot cocoa as I took the tray to avoid Mike’s knowing look.
“You know you’re allowed to be happy, right?” Mike said it casually. “Even if your parents don’t approve.”
I paused mid-cookie-arrangement. “What?”
“Your dad always thought this bar was beneath him. Thought I was wasting my life pouring drinks instead of getting a ‘real job.’” He gestured at the room—the families laughing, the kids covered in glitter, the general chaos of community joy.
“But I love this place. Built something that matters to people. And I’m happy. ”
“That’s different—”
“Is it?” He looked at me steadily. “You’re good at a lot of things, Hannah. But the question isn’t what your parents expect you to achieve. It’s what makes you happy.”
I looked back at Connor, who was now very seriously mediating a dispute between Ruby and another kid about whether Santa’s reindeer could talk.
He’d shown up today even though the hospital had wrecked him. He’d thrown himself into fixing things because that’s how he dealt with emotions he couldn’t process. And then Ruby had crashed into him and made him laugh, and I’d watched years of grief temporarily loosened by a five-year-old’s chaos.
Connor caught my eye across the room and smiled—soft and genuine. The exhaustion hovered at the edges, but underneath it was something that felt like hope.
“He makes you happy,” Mike said.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “He does.”
“Then don’t screw it up by being too scared to want more. From him, from your life, from whatever comes next.” He walked away before I could argue, leaving me standing there with a tray of cookies and too many feelings.
Mike was right. I was genuinely, stupidly happy in a way I hadn’t been in years, even before everything fell apart.
The question was: what was I going to do about it?
After Santa returned to the North Pole and the last parent wrapped their sugar-fueled kid back into oversized jackets and dragged them out into the cold, I tracked him down. “Hey. Can we talk?”
Connor looked up from coiling microphone cables with precise loops. “Of course. What’s up?”
I showed him the email. “I got this today.”
He read it, and I watched his face carefully. Surprise, then something else. Pride? Relief?
“Hannah, this is incredible.” He looked up. “An interview with Victoria—”
“Did you know they were going to reach out?”
He shook his head. “I mean, I told Victoria after the wedding that she should consider you. But I didn’t know she’d actually—” He stopped. “Should I not have said anything?”
“No. I’m glad you did.” The words surprised me as much as him. “The interview’s December 28th. In person. In Manhattan.”
His lip tilted up. “Can I—” He set down the cables. “Can I take you to dinner? After the interview?”
I smiled despite my nerves. “Are you asking me on a date, McNamara?”
“I’m asking if I can celebrate with you. Or commiserate. However it goes.” He looked down at his hands for a second, then back at me. “And you can stay at my place that night, if you want.”
If you want. The words hung there, full of possibility. His apartment. Waking up together in Manhattan. A glimpse of what could come next.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”