Chapter 1
Noelle
Snow in Atlanta is like a bad one-night stand—brief, messy, and talked about for years.
Which is exactly why I didn’t plan for one.
And why tonight’s about to go sideways.
I tap my earpiece and dodge a tray of crab puffs. “Do we have confirmation on valet staging?”
“East entrance is backed up,” Jules, my assistant, replies through a crackle of static. “Some guests already requested rideshares, but ETA’s up to twenty minutes.”
Of course it is.
The atrium at The Pit is warm and glittering, all golden lights and high ceilings and holiday sparkle so thick it practically hums.
We’ve got thirty-foot trees, a string quartet, and enough champagne to float a yacht.
On paper, it’s perfection. On the ground?
It’s barely holding.
I smile anyway, because that’s what I do—smile, manage, adapt. I’m an event planner.
Stress is my cardio and disaster is my sidekick.
“This is Atlanta,” someone laughs behind me. “We’ll get a light dusting and everyone’ll act like it’s the apocalypse.”
I don’t turn around, but my left eye twitches with restraint.
We were supposed to get a flurry. Maybe two. Just enough to look cute on the event photographer’s camera roll.
But now it’s coming down in earnest, fat flakes slicking the windows and piling on the walkways like the universe had one too many eggnogs and decided to be dramatic.
Still, the sponsors are happy.
The quartet is plucking out some moody version of “Jingle Bell Rock.” And no one’s noticed the back end of the coat check is already soaked from guests shaking out faux-fur wraps like wet dogs.
I press a palm to my stomach and let out a slow breath.
Control. That’s the word. If I keep the structure tight—timelines, tray passes, run-of-show—I can absorb the chaos before it shows.
And if I absorb it, it can’t crack me.
A server swings by with a tray of bacon-wrapped figs, and I snag one before he disappears back into the crowd.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking a bite like it’s communion. Warm, salty, grounding.
Overhead, fairy lights blink with a little too much sass.
The wind kicks again, harder this time. I glance at the front glass—snow slanting sideways, guests still smiling.
Atlanta doesn’t believe in bad weather until it’s already iced over Peachtree Street.
I press two fingers to my earpiece. “Jules, flag me if DOT updates the closure list. I don’t want to wait until the news trucks show up to tell us we’re stranded.”
“Copy.”
My phone buzzes. Another weather alert.
Another punch from Mother Nature in passive-aggressive font.
Inside, I walk the room like a slow orbit—checking corners, angles, guest clusters.
My heels click across marble, my dress swishes just right, and the smallest snag in a string of garland catches at the edge of my vision like a loose thread on a hand grenade.
I fix it before the photographer swings around.
Everything here is curated. Controlled.
Sparkling just enough to distract from the fact that I haven’t had a real holiday in six years and my last date ditched me for a fitness coach with a ring light.
This? This is safer.
I adjust a centerpiece, tuck a stray napkin, and smile as a sponsor raises his glass toward me.
I don’t do cozy. I do immaculate.
Until the wind knocks again, just a little harder.
And something in me flinches.
I’m halfway through texting the rideshare liaison when I feel it—that weird prickle at the base of my neck, like I’ve just stepped into the wrong scene in the right shoes.
Not panic. Not nerves.
Just… a shift. Like the room’s holding its breath behind me.
I turn.
And there he is.
Leaning against a column near the back bar, sleeves pushed just far enough to show strong forearms and a watch that probably costs more than my car. Hair damp from snowmelt. Suit jacket open. Tie absent.
And a look on his face like he’s already halfway checked out.
Cal Reid.
The Vipers’ youngest rookie. Quiet. Massive. All sharp edges and no shine.
And absolutely not where he’s supposed to be right now.
With Finn McCade on a tight leash from the front office, Cal’s the one I worried about not falling in line.
Not because he’s a troublemaker but because he’s new at all of this and he already looks like the type of guy who barely tolerates the off ice things that come with being a major league athlete.
Instead of making rounds or smiling for the sponsor photo op like we discussed—like I scheduled—he’s standing there like he’s the only person in the building who knows how this story ends.
I exhale once through my nose, check my smile in the reflection of a glass ornament, and cross the floor.
The crowd parts easily, the way it always does when I walk through it like I belong—which I do.
I planned every second of this night down to the final strand of battery-powered garland.
But Cal Reid doesn’t budge. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pretend to be impressed.
He’s not rude. Just… still.
Too still for a guy midway through his rookie season, wearing a suit like it’s a punishment and watching the room like it owes him something.
“Reid.” I soften the edges of my voice just enough to make it sound like I’m not annoyed.
Yet.
His eyes drag over to me slowly. Up close, they’re hazel, reminding me of autumn leaves.
They’re also unreadable and framed by dark lashes that don’t match the expression underneath. They should belong to someone cocky, someone with too many selfies on his phone.
But there’s no shine. No bite. Just calm. Heavy. A little broken, maybe, if you know what to look for. Like he’s young but with an old soul.
“I’m guessing this isn’t your kind of party,” I say, half-smile in place as I stop in front of him.
He lifts one shoulder. “I was told to show up.”
“You were also told to smile. And mingle. And maybe pretend you don’t want to crawl out of your own skin.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
It’s not the words. It’s the tone—cool and even, like everything’s on mute except for me.
“I’m going to go ahead and call that a no on the mingling,” I say lightly, glancing past him toward the bar. “Unless brooding in formalwear is your personal outreach strategy.”
A beat.
Then—barely, barely—the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like a glitch.
Progress.
“You always this pushy?” he asks.
“I’m not pushy. I’m effective.” I glance at my watch. “And currently twenty-two minutes behind schedule because someone decided to ice over the city.”
His gaze slides toward the window. Snow streaks sideways across the glass like the sky’s in a mood.
“I told the PR team you’d be a hit tonight,” I add, turning my eyes back to him. “Tall, broody, no social skills? That’s catnip for sponsors.”
“I don’t do fake charm.”
“Good. Because I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.” The words slip out before I can leash them, then hang there, sharp.
His eyes flick to mine again, more curious this time.
“I just need thirty seconds of you standing near a wreath and not looking like you want to murder someone,” I say, smoothing the moment over with a practiced smile. “Think you can handle that?”
He looks me over—not in a way that lingers, not in a way that’s rude. Just… observant. Like he sees everything and says nothing unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“Depends,” he says.
“On?”
“Is it a real wreath?”
My laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Why do I feel like that’s the most you’ve said all night?”
“Because it is.”
And there it is again—that flicker of a smile, or something close to it.
The rookie has a dry sense of humor buried under a solid wall of nope.
I shouldn’t like that. I’m not even sure I do. But something low in my stomach tightens anyway.
“Come on, Reid. You give me thirty seconds, and I’ll make sure no one drags you into a cookie-decorating station.”
“Is that a real threat?”
“Only if you keep hiding in the corner like a surly Christmas statue.”
He pushes off the wall, slow and loose, like he’s not in a hurry to be anywhere. I don’t move, don’t step back. His body heat brushes mine on the way past, warm and solid and unbothered by the air between us.
For a rookie, he carries himself like he’s already lived through a few battles.
I follow him toward the sponsor photo area, adjusting the fall of garland as we go. He stops where I point, turns to face the camera, and gives the most half-hearted, camera-unfriendly expression I’ve ever seen outside of a DMV.
“I said not murder,” I mutter.
“I’m trying.” He doesn’t move, but there’s the barest trace of amusement under his voice.
I step closer, adjust his lapel, and feel his breath when he exhales—slow and warm against my knuckles.
His eyes hold mine when I look up.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough to make my brain fuzz and my pulse flicker, fast and low.
I step back. Quickly.
“Don’t move,” I say. “You almost look like a person.”
“Careful,” he says, deadpan. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“I’ll schedule you one for next year.”
He holds still while the photographer snaps three frames, then turns to me like we’ve just completed a secret mission.
“Was that so hard?” I ask.
“I’ve had worse.”
He pauses, then adds, “At least there were no cookies.”
I blink.
And then I laugh. For real this time.
It’s quick, and stupid, and warm in a way I didn’t expect. But I feel it right down to my spine. And from the look in his eyes, he felt it too.
Just a flicker.
Just enough to mean something I don’t have time to deal with.