Chapter 10 #2
Her handshake is firm, confident. Up close, I can see the traces of exhaustion under her perfectly applied makeup, the slight edge of stress in her smile. But her enthusiasm is genuine, crackling in the air around her like static electricity.
“Ms. Maddox.” I return her grip. “Thank you for making time.”
“Are you kidding?” She gestures for me to sit, settling into her own chair with the fluid grace of someone who’s spent years perfecting efficiency of movement.
“A collaboration with Apex Event Group?” She leans forward, eyes sparkling with something between excitement and calculation.
“I don’t normally take new clients during Christmas season.
We’re in charge of all the festivals around here during Christmas season.
But when one of the most prestigious event companies in Manhattan reaches out? I’d be insane to pass it up.”
I allow myself a small smile. Hiring Apex Events, the event company I usually use back in the city, to coordinate with a local company was the right move. “I appreciate your flexibility.”
“So.” Tessa pulls out a leather-bound planner, flipping it open with practiced ease. “Let’s talk timeline. You’re looking at December 22nd?”
“Three days before Christmas,” I confirm. “I understand that’s aggressive.”
“Aggressive?” Her smile sharpens, taking on an almost predatory edge.
“Mr. Castellano, aggressive is my specialty.” She taps her pen against the planner.
“I’ve received all the information your assistant sent over.
The vendor list, the specifications, the logistics.
” Her gaze meets mine, steady and assured.
“Everything you’ve requested is manageable.
The deliveries will come directly to my warehouse, and my team will handle the setup. ”
She slides a contract across the desk. It’s thorough. I scan the terms quickly, noting the confidentiality clauses, the payment schedule, the contingency plans. Professional. Detailed. Exactly what I need.
“The timing is tight,” I say, meeting her gaze. “Any delays would be unacceptable.”
Tessa’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it becomes more lethal. “I understand completely. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Good.” I pull out my pen, the expensive weight of it familiar in my hand. “I hate disappointment.”
Her laugh is bright, genuine. “So do I, Mr. Castellano. So do I.”
I sign the contract with quick, decisive strokes. She countersigns immediately, then makes a copy for my records with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” she says as she hands me the folder.
I don’t confirm or deny. Just tuck the folder under my arm and stand. “I’ll be in touch if anything changes.”
“We’ll make it perfect.” She walks me to the door, her energy never flagging. “Trust me.”
I do. I made sure to look into Tessa Maddox’s track record before approaching her. She’s good at what she does and discreet when required. And I need discreet.
Regina is waiting outside the office, already on her phone coordinating something.
She gives me a brief nod as I pass, professional and unobtrusive.
Downstairs, the chaos has somehow intensified.
Someone’s arguing about whether “forest green” and “hunter green” are the same color.
Another person is on the phone, their voice rising in pitch as they insist that yes, they absolutely need two hundred poinsettias by Monday.
I slip out into the snow, which has picked up slightly. Chunky flakes drift down from a gray sky, catching in my hair and on my shoulders. Main Street is busier now. Families bundling up for the Holly and Ivy Festival that starts tomorrow, vendors setting up their stalls for the Christmas Market.
As I head back toward the Hartley house, I find myself humming along to “Jingle Bell Rock,” the song the carolers were belting out earlier. The tune’s annoyingly catchy, and I catch myself smiling despite the cold.
That’s when I notice the cat.
A fluffy gray thing with a ridiculous red and white striped sweater that makes it look like a walking candy cane. It sits outside a bookshop door, one white paw raised, scratching insistently at the wood.
I pause, watching it. The sign above reads “The Winter Quill” in elegant script, fairy lights wound around the letters even in daylight. The cat meows, a plaintive, demanding sound, and scratches harder.
“Alright,” I mutter, reaching for the door handle. The bells chime as I push it open, and the cat darts inside before I can second-guess my decision to play good Samaritan.
The shop is empty but warm, smelling of old paper and ink. Bookshelves stretch toward exposed beams wrapped in garland, and a small Christmas tree sits in the corner, decorated with miniature book ornaments. Two armchairs face each other near a fireplace where fake flames flicker.
Voices drift from somewhere in the back. A woman’s soft murmur, and a man’s deeper rumble.
I should leave. The cat’s clearly made it inside, mission accomplished. But as I turn toward the door, a display table catches my eye. Books. Romance books, specifically. But not the kind Olivia hides on her subway commute.
The Modern Man’s Guide to Courtship.
Planning the Perfect Date in Ten Easy Steps.
How to Woo Your Woman Without Looking Like an Idiot.
I pick up the last one, turning it over. The back cover promises “practical advice for men who want to make their partners feel cherished without resorting to clichés.”
When’s the last time I actually dated someone?
The question sits uncomfortably in my chest. Rebecca, the lawyer.
That was before everything fell apart, before the company nearly collapsed.
We’d been together for a few months. Industry dinners, gallery openings, and nights that were more about physical release than emotional connection.
Neither of us wanted more than that, and it worked. Until it didn’t.
When the business started failing, when I was hemorrhaging money and working twenty-hour days just to keep the lights on, I ended it. Told her I needed to focus. That I couldn’t give her the attention she deserved. It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.
The whole truth was Olivia.
Working alongside her those first brutal months, I’d realized what I’d been missing with Rebecca.
It wasn’t just that Olivia was brilliant, though she was.
It was the way she’d sit with me in the worst of moments, telling me we’d be fine.
Not me—“we.” The hours she spent by my side, learning what she had to, working on all the small things I couldn’t handle.
She’d make snide remarks under her breath when I was being unreasonable, then flash me that smile.
The real one, not the professional mask she wears now.
Back then, she was less guarded. More like how she is here in Silverbell Hollow, in her parents’ kitchen, teasing her sister and rolling her eyes at her father’s decorating obsession.
Those long nights rebuilding the company, it was her presence that made the impossible feel achievable.
Her laugh when I’d say something dry and cutting.
The way she’d show up with coffee and somehow know exactly when I needed to hear that we’d get through this.
She made me want more than what I’d had with Rebecca.
More than casual and convenient. She made me want everything.
For six years, she was off-limits. Now that Chase is out of the picture, I can’t let this chance slip out of my hands.
But what do I actually know about dating? I’ve never really worried about this before. Even a buffoon can give a nice gift. I need to charm her and have her so entangled with me that walking away becomes unbearable for her.
I pick up The Modern Man’s Guide to Courtship and add it to the stack. Then Romantic Gestures That Actually Work.
“Oh, dear.”
I look up.
A young woman hobbles out from the back, one hand braced against the doorframe. She winces with each step, clearly favoring her left foot. Behind her, Chase appears, an orange tabby cradled carefully in his arms. The cat yawns before batting at Chase with its paws.
“She’ll be fine,” he’s saying, his tone pleasant. “It’s just hairballs. I’ve given her something to help with her digestive system.” He sets the cat down gently on the counter.
The woman adjusts the oversized cardigan that’s slipping off one shoulder. “Thank you so much.”
“My assistant will send you the invoice.” He reaches into his veterinary bag and pulls out a small bottle, handing it to her. “Give her half a dropper of this twice a day. It should help.”
“Thank you.” She pushes her thick-rimmed glasses back up her nose as she takes the bottle.
Then Chase looks up and sees me. His entire body goes rigid. His pale blue eyes lock onto mine.
I put the books back before he can see them and pick up a gardening book from a nearby shelf instead. Winter Gardens: A Guide to Cold-Weather Planting.
Chase’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He picks up his bag, his movements stiff. He heads for the door without looking at me again, the bells chiming as he steps outside.
The cat I just let inside presses against my legs, purring loud enough to be heard across the room.
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes go wide. She looks at the cat, then her gaze catches on the snow dusting its striped sweater.
“Mr. Darcy, why are you covered in snow?” Her eyes widen further. “Wait, were you outside?”
“He was scratching at your door,” I say. “I assumed he belonged inside.”
“Thank you.” Relief washes over her features. “Thank you so much. He’s an escape artist. I don’t know how he keeps getting out.” She bends down carefully, favoring her injured foot, and scoops up the cat, who immediately settles against her chest like he belongs there.