A Merry Misdeal (The Silverbell Hollow #1)

Chapter 1

It’s snowing outside.

I press my palm against the window, watching heavy snowflakes spiral past the fifty-ninth floor like they’re auditioning for a Hallmark movie. The glass is cold enough to sting, but I keep my hand there anyway, counting the seconds until my skin goes numb.

This isn’t real snow. Not the kind that matters, anyway.

Real snow falls soft and silent over mountain ridges, dusting pine trees and turning Main Street into something out of a storybook.

Real snow smells like woodsmoke and cinnamon, tastes like hot chocolate on your tongue while you’re bundled up on a porch swing, your dad stringing lights across the eaves.

This? This is just frozen precipitation with an attitude problem, the kind that turns Manhattan sidewalks into death traps and makes taxi drivers even more homicidal than usual.

I should be thrilled about it. Snow in early December means Christmas is coming, and Christmas means I get to see my family for the first time since last New Year’s.

My stomach twists.

Right. That’s exactly why I’m not thrilled. I’ve had eleven whole months of carefully crafted excuses about work emergencies and crucial meetings and projects that absolutely could not wait. Now I have to go home and face the disaster I’ve been putting off all year.

I drop my hand and turn back to my desk, which looks like a bomb went off in a filing cabinet. Papers everywhere, three coffee mugs in various stages of empty, and my laptop screen displaying the same spreadsheet I’ve been staring at for the past hour without actually seeing it.

This is pathetic. I don’t do pathetic. I do competent and organized and so on top of things that I could run this entire company with one hand tied behind my back while simultaneously meal-prepping for the week.

Except apparently today I do pathetic because I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes watching snow fall instead of finalizing the Q4 reports.

One month. I’m going home for four whole weeks.

I must have been temporarily insane when I submitted that time-off request. Or maybe just weak.

My mother has a way of making guilt sound like concern, of turning “We miss you, sweetie” into a weapon of emotional manipulation so effective it should be studied by the CIA.

And then my father, the quiet, steady Bob Hartley, actually got on the phone.

That’s how I knew I was in trouble. Dad doesn’t do phone calls unless someone’s dead or dying or, apparently, when his oldest daughter hasn’t been home in a year.

So I caved. I requested the time off, got it approved, and now I’m stuck going back to Silverbell Hollow where I’ll have to smile and nod and pretend everything is fine.

The intercom on my desk buzzes, sharp and insistent, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

I look up.

Through the glass wall that separates my office from the corner suite, I can see a man standing behind a massive mahogany desk, dark hair styled with precision and a tall posture that suggests he’s never slouched a day in his life.

He’s wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that probably costs more than my rent, and even from here, I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

Alexander Castellano. CEO. Billionaire. My boss for the past six years.

In the boardroom, he’s lethal. I’ve watched him dismantle executives with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a question delivered in that deceptively calm tone.

I’ve seen venture capitalists leave meetings looking like they’ve been through a war.

He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t have to.

He simply exists in a space above everyone else, untouchable and absolute, and people either rise to meet him or crumble under the pressure.

Most crumble.

I’m one of the few who doesn’t, though I’d never admit that to him.

He’s looking directly at me now, and I can see the focus in his gaze. Not irritated exactly. Just... intent. He crooks one finger in a gesture that’s somehow both casual and commanding.

‘Come here.’

I resist the urge to flip him off—barely—and instead tap the intercom button. “Yes?”

“The Donovan files.” His voice comes through crisp and cool, like winter air through an open window. “Where are they?”

I glance at the stack of folders on the corner of my desk, the ones I was supposed to deliver thirty minutes ago, back when I was still a functional human being. “I have them.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to bring them to me,” he says, each word perfectly measured, “before the meeting starts in—” He glances at his watch. “—forty minutes.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He doesn’t respond, just turns away from the window in a movement that’s both dismissal and expectation. He knows I’ll come. I always do.

I gather the files, smooth down my blouse, and take a breath that’s supposed to be calming but mostly just makes me dizzy. Then I walk the ten steps to his door and let myself in without knocking. Because that’s one of the perks of being the person who basically runs his life.

Alexander’s office is ridiculous. Eight hundred square feet of mahogany and leather and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of Manhattan mere mortals would commit felonies to see.

There’s a full bar cart in the corner, a sitting area with all custom made furniture, and bookshelves lined with first editions that he’s definitely read because Alexander Castellano doesn’t do anything halfway.

And then there’s the man himself.

He’s standing behind his desk, and I notice immediately that his suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair.

The charcoal vest fits him perfectly, tailored to emphasize the lean lines of his torso.

His dark tie is still knotted perfectly at his throat, and I can see the flex of muscle in his forearms as he braces his hands on the desk, studying his laptop screen.

It’s a pity, really. All that bone structure wasted on someone with the emotional warmth of a tax audit.

“The Donovan Files, as requested,” I say, setting them down on his desk.

He doesn’t look up immediately. Just continues scanning whatever’s on his screen, and I wonder if he’s actually reading it or just making me wait. Then, without lifting his eyes: “You’re distracted.”

It’s not a question.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been staring out the window for the past half hour.” He finally looks up, and those gray eyes pin me in place. Clinical. Assessing. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, keeping my tone level. “I was just… thinking.”

“Thinking.” He says it like I’ve just admitted to something scandalous. “About what?”

About whether I can fake my own death to get out of going home. “Work,” I lie smoothly. “The Donovan merger.”

He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to hold his gaze even though every instinct is screaming at me to look away.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he says finally.

My stomach drops. “Yes.”

“For a month.”

“Yes. As approved—”

“A month is too long.” He says it like he’s commenting on the weather. Factual. Final.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t approve your leave.”

For a second, I think I’ve misheard him. Then the words register, and irritation flares in my chest. “You already approved it. Two months ago. HR processed it and everything.”

“I’m revoking the approval.” Still that same calm, detached tone. Like he’s not currently threatening to upend my entire holiday plan.

“You can’t do that.”

“I’m the CEO,” he says calmly. “I can do whatever I want.”

“Actually,” I say, my voice going dangerously sweet, “you can’t. It’s in my contract. The one we renewed in September. Section 4.7, paragraph B: approved vacation time cannot be revoked within thirty days of the start date without employee consent. I made sure of it.”

His jaw tightens. It’s subtle, barely a flicker, but I’ve worked with him long enough to recognize when he’s annoyed. “You planned this.”

“I planned to take the vacation time I’m contractually entitled to, yes. Shocking, I know.”

He straightens slowly, pushing off the desk, and suddenly I’m very aware of how tall he is. How the vest emphasizes the breadth of his chest. How his rolled sleeves expose strong forearms that shouldn’t be distracting but absolutely are.

“I need you here.”

The words land differently than they were intended to.

If he said them in literally any other context—if we were anywhere but in this office, if there wasn’t a mahogany desk and six years of professional boundaries between us—I might let myself imagine they meant something other than my job performance.

But that would be stupid.

“It’s not possible.” I keep my words steady even as my heart stutters in my chest. “Everything is handled. I’ve prepared briefs for all active projects, delegated tasks, and set up daily reports. Christina will be covering for me, and she’s more than capable.”

“Christina isn’t you.” He says it flatly, like it’s a problem I should have solved already.

“Christina is an excellent assistant who—”

“Christina doesn’t anticipate what I need before I need it,” he interrupts, his words clipped.

He walks around the desk, and I catch the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive that makes my mouth go dry.

“Christina doesn’t speak in board meetings.

Christina doesn’t know when to push back and when to execute without question.

Christina doesn’t—” He stops, dragging a hand through his hair and messing it up in a way that should look disheveled but somehow just makes him look more attractive, which is frankly unfair. “I need you, Olivia.”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumps at the emphasis. “You’ll survive. You always do.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” I ask, exasperation bleeding into my words.

“The point,” he says, “is that four weeks without you here will cost me time, efficiency, and patience I don’t have to spare.”

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It’s a statement of fact.”

“Wrapped in flattery.”