Chapter 18
Kelly
A week later, I stride into the mayor’s office, notebook clutched as a shield, trying to focus on anything but the fact that Jake is already here. He’s sitting in front of the mayor’s desk in one of the visitor chairs, ankles crossed, exuding that effortless confidence.
He’s so capable without it ever being pushed in anyone’s face. A fixer, good with his hands. And it doesn’t help that he’s still the most maddeningly handsome man I’ve ever seen.
I make the mistake of looking right at him, and he shoots me a wide smile. His dark hair is slightly tousled, jawline scruffed, and those dark eyes—intense, focused—stare as though I’m the only person in the room.
My heart does this stupid little skip— traitor —but I ignore it and plaster on my I’m a professional smile as I take a seat beside Jake, both of us facing the mayor.
“Kelly, Jake.” The mayor’s eyes flick between the two of us. “So glad you could make this progress meeting.”
“Elaine,” I say respectfully. “I’ve brought the latest updates on the festival arrangements.”
“Fantastic.” The mayor beams, but there’s a steeliness in her gaze, and I’m going to have to pull out the big guns if I’m going to get her stamp of approval.
“First,” I say, ticking off points on my fingers while ignoring how close Jake’s sitting, “we’ve reached out to local artisans for the craft booths, and the food vendors are submitting proposals in the next few days—mostly organic and sustainable, of course.”
The mayor nods, and I continue to list my progress to date, before Jake gives an update on the installations. They’ve achieved a lot in only a week. The mayor also looks impressed, and she takes a moment to remind us of her grand vision, that this needs to be the kind of event that’ll have social media influencers flocking to Harbor’s Edge. “Every detail must be perfect.”
I scribble furiously in my planner. “Understood, Elaine.”
“I don’t think I can overstate this: the Founder’s Day Festival has to be monumental. We’re talking about reviving a town that’s been sucker-punched by Mother Nature and then kicked while it was down.”
The weight of her expectations tangle with a familiar knot in my stomach, the kind that tightens with each mention of monumental and perfect . Thankfully, I have a good poker face.
“Got it.” My hand reaches out, unconsciously tapping twice on the oak table. “Bigger and better on every front.”
“Exactly,” she says.
“Let’s brainstorm some ideas to elevate things,” Jake says. “How about a larger fireworks display? Or a celebrity guest? We could expand the dining hall and offer an outdoor fine dining area.”
“All of it,” I say.
“Although we need to stay within budget,” Jake replies with a straight face. He leans slightly in my direction, the heat of him hitting me in waves, my skin buzzing where we’re almost touching.
The mayor grins at us both. “I’m so happy the two of you are working together. Do whatever it takes. Make it spectacular. But within budget, of course.” She claps her hands together. “Alright, this has been a productive meeting, but I’ve taken up enough of your time. Let’s get back to work. Thank you both for coming.” She stands as we stand, watching us walk out together.
As I reach the door, I glance back—just for a split second—against my better judgment. Jake’s eyes are already on me, dark and unreadable. There’s something about the way he looks at me that makes my pulse spike, and for a moment, the air between us crackles. I swallow hard, forcing myself to tear my gaze away.
“Goodbye, Jake,” I say, my voice clipped.
His lips twitch. “See you soon. I’ll send you an email to arrange a visit to the workshop.”
I turn quickly, forcing myself to walk down the hallway, summoning every ounce of willpower not to look over my shoulder again.
Back in my office, I settle behind my desk. “Perfection or bust,” I say, flipping open my laptop. There’s no room for error—not if I want to make my mom’s memory proud, if I want to deliver everything the mayor’s expecting.
I start typing out a list: research eco-friendly fireworks, local vendors only, flawless execution, non-negotiable: zero waste policy, and remain at my desk until the sun goes down, making calls and typing out notes, occasionally staring at the wall opposite, thinking about Jake until I manage to get my thoughts back on track.
Soon it’s only the faint glow of my laptop in the otherwise dark office, and I get up to switch on the overhead light. The clock on the wall has been ticking away the hours, but I barely noticed. There’s too much to do, too many moving pieces to juggle, and every detail could be the one thing that makes—or breaks—this festival.
I tell myself I’ll eat after I finish just this one more thing. Then one thing becomes two. Two becomes a hundred, and before I know it, my stomach growls loudly, reminding me it’s been hours since I last ate. I glance at the sandwich someone from the team brought in earlier, now sitting in a corner of my desk, untouched. My gaze sharpens on the bread. Too many carbs, too heavy. Not tonight.
Later, I tell myself. I’ll eat later.
I pull my focus back to the spreadsheet in front of me, tweaking the itinerary again. Everything has to be perfect. I need it to be perfect. If not, what’s the point?
My notebook is in front of me, and I obsessively cross-check every item, my fingers drumming the desk as I rewrite the schedule, shifting times by minutes, double-checking vendor contacts.
Charlie from accounts pops his head in through my open door—he’s also working late. “Hey, I’m about to order a pizza. You want a couple of slices?”
“I’ve eaten already,” I lie. “But thanks.”
I return to my work, hands jittery from too much caffeine and not enough food. As I look around the quiet office, it hits me. I’m slipping again. I should call my therapist and schedule an extra session, but I’ve been in recovery for so long, I’m sure I can handle this. It’s just the stress from work and my thoughts being hijacked by this thing between Jake and me.
I’m just about to shut down my laptop when a notification pings—a new email. From Jake Tanner. For a second, I hesitate, my hand hovering over the mouse. I shouldn’t let him affect me, but there’s no denying the thrill that shot through me when his name popped up.
Clicking it open, I skim the message. Jake’s asking if I’m free to inspect the festival installations at his warehouse tomorrow before they’re moved to the site. Straightforward, professional. Still, my pulse quickens as I read it again. He signed off with Looking forward to it —which could mean anything. Or nothing.
I lean back in my chair, biting my lip. I should just say yes , confirm the appointment, and leave it at that. But I can’t help wondering if he’ll be there. Do I hope he’ll be there? Or would it be easier if he wasn’t?
Shaking my head, I type out a quick reply: Sure, I can make it.