Chapter 2
HANNAH
The Winter Party is perfect.
And I mean perfect in that terrifying way where you’ve orchestrated every single detail and now you’re just waiting to see which one decides to betray you first.
Pinewood Lodge sits on the north edge of Whispering Grove, all exposed timber beams and stone, the kind of venue that photographers love and costs accordingly.
I’ve transformed it into something out of a winter fairy tale with thousands of white lights strung across the ceiling in cascading waves, creating the illusion of stars.
Garland wrapped around every beam, threaded with burgundy ribbon and silver ornaments that catch the light.
The large stone fireplace on the east wall crackles with fire, stockings hung along the mantel, flames casting warm shadows across the space.
The twelve-foot Douglas fir dominates the north corner.
I personally supervised the tree’s installation, made sure it was positioned exactly right so it’s visible from every angle.
More lights, more ornaments, a gold star on top that required a very tall ladder and a prayer that I wouldn’t fall to my death.
Near the tree, a string quartet plays something classical and festive.
The venue is split between function and mingling.
Half the space is filled with round tables—seating for thirty families—with white tablecloths and centerpieces made of pine cones, candles, and winter greenery.
The other half is standing cocktail tables scattered throughout, tall and circular, perfect for guests to gather around with drinks and appetizers. Right now people are everywhere.
On the far wall, a projection screen cycles through company photos. Team-building exercises. Office parties. Summer picnic. Cascade Tech employees looking happy and productive, the kind of corporate nostalgia that reminds everyone why they’re here.
This event is everything I promised it would be.
Six months. That’s how long I’ve been working for Confetti it’s a person. Tall. Solid. Unmoving.
I glance over my shoulder.
Red velvet. White fur trim. A Santa suit. Relief hits me so fast it’s dizzying. Santa, thank God. I can use this and make this work without creating a scene.
Scot is still closing in, licking his lips, and I almost gag.
My brain shifts into survival mode. I spin halfway, grab the front of Santa’s coat, turn him toward me, my eyes locked on Scot. “Santa, kiss me. Christmas luck. Just a quick one.”
I don’t wait for permission.
I rise up on my toes, yank Santa by the coat, and move to kiss his cheek, except he’s turned and our lips clash.
For half a second, nothing happens.
Then he kisses me back, slow and sure, and my entire world tilts. Warm hands cradle my hips, steady and confident, and heat rolls through me so fast I forget where I am.
My eyes fly open.
The man in front of me is not Declan, our Santa. His eyes were a muddy brown when I met him two days ago to go over party details. These eyes are moss green, sharp and steady, watching me like he already knows every secret I have ever kept.
And his scent hits me a heartbeat later. Cinnamon cake. Burnt caramel. Cedar. Rich and sharp under the sugar and pine of the party around us.
Declan smelled like the outdoors and cheap deodorant. Sweat and cold air. Nothing like this. Nothing that makes my knees go loose and my tongue forget how to move.