Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Jude
The snow’s already collecting in the cracks of Main Street when Ryker and I step into Town Hall. The old building smells like pine polish and coffee, same as it has since I was a kid.
Fluorescent lights hum above the reception desk, where Holly Merrill’s perched like she’s waiting for her next victim. Blonde curls, red lipstick, skirt too short for October.
She’s tapping her pen against a clipboard, pretending she doesn’t see me, which means she absolutely does.
She was a one-night stand mistake that I made in January. A long-legged, soft-voiced, keep-it-casual mistake.
I nod anyway, because ignoring her would only make her purr louder.
“Well, if it isn’t Fox Hollow’s finest craftsmen.” Her smile’s too bright for this hour. “Mayor’s expecting you both.”
Ryker grunts something close to a greeting. He’s still got plaster dust on his flannel from the Fernbridge cabins, and his beard’s a shade darker from the snow melting into it.
We’ve spent all week gutting those lakeside units, trying to get the new insulation in before the temperature drops for good. My hands ache from pulling down warped panels.
We walk down the narrow hall toward the mayor’s office. The wood floors creak beneath our boots, the same way they did when my dad brought me here to pay taxes on his truck. Fox Hollow doesn’t change much, just the faces that come and go.
Mayor Walter Brighton’s leaning over his desk when we enter, his belly pressed against the edge, eyes bright with that politician’s mix of charm and caffeine. He’s a round man, cheerful to a fault, and always talking about the town like it’s his favorite child.
“Jude, Ryker! You’re right on time.” He waves us in with both hands. “Close the door, gentlemen. We’ve got ourselves a bit of a situation.”
Ryker gives me a look that says this could be either good or stupid. Probably both.
Brighton gestures toward the chair across from his desk. “Sit, sit. You’ve been working miracles with those Fernbridge cabins. Everyone’s talking about how you’re bringing that place back to life.”
“We’re trying,” I answer, pulling off my gloves. “Still got a few units left before the pipes are fully replaced.”
“Of course, of course.” He drops into his chair, the leather groaning beneath his weight. “That’s why I called you in. We’ve got another project—one I’d love to see you two take on.”
Ryker crosses his arms. “What’s the catch?”
Brighton chuckles. “Nothing nefarious. It’s the community hall. You know, the old meeting place down by Elm Street.”
Immediately, I picture the big red building with peeling white trim and a roof that’s bowed in the middle like it’s tired of carrying its own weight. Every town wedding, bake sale, and bingo night used to happen there. Lately, it’s been more raccoon nest than community hub.
“It’s not in a very good condition,” Brighton continues, “but we need it open by Halloween, and fully functional by Christmas Eve. The snow festival, the carols, the market—all of it depends on that building.”
Ryker’s jaw tightens. I can already see his pulse tick in his neck. “Christmas Eve,” he repeats, voice rough. “That’s not enough time.”
“I know,” the mayor says, leaning forward like excitement could bridge logic. “But imagine it—Fox Hollow’s biggest festival yet. We’ve already got sponsors, a tree ordered from Ashfield Pines, and visitors coming from Portland. This could put our town back on the map.”
“We’re not exactly out of work,” I remind him. “Fernbridge still has a few cabins to finish.”
Brighton waves it off. “Yes, yes, I understand, but this would be worth your while. We’re talking a full renovation. New walls, insulation, wiring. Maybe open up the floor plan so we can fit the market stalls indoors.”
“That means tearing through structural walls,” Ryker cuts in. “You’re talking about a rebuild, not a renovation.”
Brighton’s grin widens like he’s been waiting for that reaction.
“That’s where Denzel and Ridge come in. They’re an architectural firm from Portland.
Brilliant folks. They’ve done work for the Astoria boardwalk refurbish and the Portland Artisan Center.
They’ll provide the design plans, and you’ll execute them.
You two would be the primary contractors. ”
I whistle low. “Those are big names.”
“And big budgets,” Brighton adds proudly. “The town council’s willing to pay fifty-eight thousand for the project, maybe more if materials spike. Half up front, half on completion.”
Ryker looks at me, eyes narrowing. That kind of money could keep us running through spring. Could cover payroll for the crew, equipment upgrades, and the overdue tax bill from last year.
It’s the type of job we need. But it’s also a cursed date. Christmas. Neither of us has celebrated it in years.
Brighton’s already pulling a folder from his drawer. “As I said, I’d love to have the hall open for a Halloween event, too. Maybe a small gathering next week? A trial run.”
“Halloween’s in a few days,” Ryker mutters. “And it’s snowing hard enough to cancel trick-or-treating.”
Brighton laughs. “Oh, I know, but we could at least have a fundraiser to announce the project. Boost morale. People need something to look forward to.”
Holly slips in through the side door then, carrying a tray with three mugs and a plate of butter cookies. Her perfume hits before she speaks. Sweet, too deliberate.
She bends just a little too far as she sets the mugs down, giving me a view I’m not supposed to remember. Ryker catches it, shooting me a smirk I ignore.
“Mayor,” she coos, “your two o’clock meeting is in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, Holly. You’re an angel.” He pats her arm. She flashes a grin my way before gliding out.
Ryker grunts under his breath. “Your type’s exhausting.”
“She’s persistent,” I answer. “There’s a difference.”
“Same result.”
Brighton clasps his hands. “So, what do you think? Can I count on Pack Built Construction to save Christmas?”
The words sit wrong in my chest. Christmas hasn’t meant anything good for either of us in a long time.
We spend the holiday the same way every year. Cheap whiskey, no lights, no calls. Just the two of us, waiting for it to pass.
Ryker won’t even walk downtown in December. Too many decorations, too many memories he doesn’t talk about.
I clear my throat. “We’ll have to review the plans before we commit. And we’ve got Fernbridge to finish.”
“Of course,” Brighton says, already reaching for his planner. “Take your time. I’ll send over the documents later today.”
When we step back outside, the cold bites sharper. Snow’s coming down in thick, heavy flakes, dusting the street lamps and parked trucks.
Ryker tugs his beanie lower and starts toward the lot without a word. I fall into step beside him, boots crunching against the slush.
“That guy’s lost it,” Ryker mutters. “He wants us to rebuild a condemned hall before Christmas Eve? That’s suicide.”
“This will be our highest paying job yet,” I remind him. “Could be worth the headache.”
Ryker stops by the truck, staring at the snow building on the hood. His hands rest on the doorframe, rough knuckles whitening. “You know what that holiday does to me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to hang lights, or fix roofs for carolers, or play happy contractor for people pretending everything’s perfect.”
The wind pushes against us, carrying the faint smell of cedar and chimney smoke. I shove my hands into my pockets. “Maybe it’s time we did something different. Instead of sulking at home.”
His head tilts, eyes cutting toward me beneath his beanie. “You mean drink at the site instead?”
I laugh, but it doesn’t reach deep. “I mean… maybe fixing that hall would give us something else to think about.”
He studies me like he’s searching for something he can argue with. When he finds nothing, he shakes his head. “You’re an optimist. That’s your problem.”
“I’m broke. That’s my problem.”
He grunts, sliding into the driver’s seat. I follow, the old pickup groaning as we settle in. The heater squeals when he starts it, filling the cab with dry warmth. We sit in silence while the windshield wipers clear the glass.
Ryker breaks the quiet first. “You really think we could pull it off?”
“If the plans from Denzel and Ridge make sense, maybe. We’d need a full crew and double shifts.”
He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “That hall’s rotted from the inside. You saw it last time we installed lighting for the Harvest Dance.”
“I remember.” The roof leaked so bad we had to use buckets between the stalls. “We’d have to start with the beams, probably replace the entire north wall.”
“That’s weeks of work.”
“Yeah.”
He sighs through his nose. “I hate that he dangled the money like that.”
“Maybe he knows we need it.”
Ryker stares out the windshield for a long stretch, jaw tight. The snow thickens, swirling across the lot in white veils.
Finally, he nods toward the road. “Let’s get home before the pass ices over. I got some beer so we can crack those open and think this through.”
As we drive, the radio hums low between us, an old country song about broken fences and stubborn hearts. It fits too well.
Ryker keeps his focus on the road, but I catch the flicker of thought in his expression—something he’s trying not to let me see.
When we reach our place, he parks without cutting the engine. The porch light glows across the yard, spilling over the woodpile stacked by the steps.
He doesn’t move. Just sits there, eyes on the snow. “You think he’ll really send those plans?”
“He will,” I answer. “Brighton never gives up when he’s excited.”
Ryker nods once, the muscle in his jaw shifting. “If we do this, we do it right.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He kills the engine and steps out, snow catching in his beard again. I follow him, wait for him to grab some more firewood before we walk into his house. I slam the door behind me, the cold cutting straight through my coat.