Chapter 12
Holden
Wren's apartment smells like cinnamon and chaos, which is basically her signature scent at this point. She's lit approximately forty-eight candles despite it being three in the afternoon, and there's Christmas music playing from three different sources, none of them synchronized.
"Is this supposed to be romantic, or are you conducting a séance?" I ask, dodging a precariously placed candelabra.
"It's ambiance," she insists, rearranging throw pillows that definitely weren't here yesterday. "I read that ambience is important for intimate dinners."
"This is lunch," I point out.
"Intimate lunch then," she corrects, pulling something from the oven that might be lasagna or might be a science experiment gone wrong.
"Did you make this?" I ask genuinely concerned.
"Define 'make,'" she hedges.
"Did you combine ingredients and apply heat?" I clarify.
"Then yes, I made it," she says proudly. "It's my grandmother's recipe."
"Your grandmother cooked?" I ask, surprised.
"Grandma ordered takeout and put it in her own dishes," Wren admits. "But she did it with love, which is basically cooking."
The doorbell rings before I can respond, and Wren freezes like a deer caught in very festive headlights.
"Who knows you're having an intimate lunch?" I ask.
"Nobody! I told nobody!" she insists, then her face falls. "Except Mrs. Patterson. And she told June. And June told Delia. And Delia sent out a newsletter."
"There's a newsletter about our lunch?" I ask.
"Just like the committees, there's a newsletter about everything," she sighs, heading for the door.
But it's not the committee. It's worse. It's Sterling.
He stands in Wren's hallway wearing a coat that costs more than most cars and an expression that suggests he's offended by Vermont's existence.
"Holden," he says, like my name tastes bad.
"Sterling," I reply, trying to block his view of Wren. "How did you find me?"
"Pierce Industries has resources," he says smoothly. "Also, this town has one inn, and the receptionist is very chatty. Iris? Delightful woman. Told me everything."
"Of course she did," Wren mutters behind me.
Sterling's eyes shift to her, and his smile turns sharp. "You must be the toy shop owner."
"I must be," Wren agrees, stepping beside me. "You must be a corporate vampire."
"I prefer Senior Vice President of Development," Sterling corrects.
"I prefer lots of things I don't get," Wren shoots back. "Like privacy. And functioning heating. And lunch dates without corporate invasions."
"This is a lunch date?" Sterling asks, raising an eyebrow. "How quaint. Holden, we need to talk. Privately."
"Anything you need to say can be said in front of Wren," I tell him.
"Can it? Even the part about why you're really here?" Sterling asks innocently.
My blood freezes. Wren looks between us, confusion clear on her face.
"He's here because he works at the garage," she drawls, "and because we're dating."
"Dating," Sterling repeats, like the word is foreign. "Is that what we're calling corporate reconnaissance now?"
"Sterling," I warn.
"Oh, she doesn't know?" His face shifts to fake shock. "How awkward. Holden Pierce—yes, Pierce, as in Pierce Industries—is here to evaluate your charming little town for acquisition. Your shop is interesting. Prime real estate, terrible profit margins. Perfect for a Starbucks."
The color drains from Wren's face. "Is he serious?"
"He's lying," I blurt.
"Am I? Show her your real driver's license," Sterling suggests. "The one that says Pierce, not Clark."
Wren steps back from me like I'm radioactive. "Your name isn't even Holden Clark?"
"Technically, my full name is Holden Clark Pierce," I manage. "Clark was my mother's maiden name."
"Technically?" she repeats, her voice rising. "TECHNICALLY?"
"Wren, I can explain—"
"Can you? Can you explain why you've been lying to me? To everyone?" She's backing away, knocking into furniture. "Oh God, the soft hands. The corporate speak. Not knowing anything about cars. It all makes sense."
"The relationship is real," I insist, reaching for her.
She jerks away. "Which part? The fake name? The fake job? The fake reason for being here?"
"The feelings aren't fake," I say desperately.
"Your feelings?" Sterling laughs. "Holden doesn't have feelings. He has spreadsheets and profit margins. Tell her about your charts, Holden. The ones rating the town's vulnerability."
"You made charts about destroying my town?" Wren asks, her voice small.
"I make charts about everything. You know that. I made charts about us—"
"About manipulating me," she corrects.
"About understanding relationships!" I protest.
"To better manipulate me!" she shouts.
"Actually, that's accurate," Sterling confirms helpfully. "Manipulation through manufactured intimacy was literally in his preliminary report."
"I'm going to murder you," I inform Sterling.
"With what? Your callus? Oh wait, that's fake too. Probably drew it on," Sterling says, examining my hands with disdain.
"The callus is real!" I defend, which sounds pathetic even to me.
"One real callus doesn't make you a real person," Wren says quietly. "Get out."
"Wren, please—"
"GET OUT!" she screams, throwing a throw pillow at my head. Then another. She has so many throw pillows.
"I'll wait in the car," Sterling says cheerfully. "We have a board meeting via video in twenty minutes. Don't be late."
He leaves, and I'm alone with Wren, who's now armed with a decorative candelabra.
"Wren, put down the candelabra," I plead.
"Why? Worried I'll damage your precious profit margins?" she asks.
"Worried you'll set yourself on fire. That's a lot of candles," I point out.
She looks around at her romantic ambiance setup and starts laughing. But it's not joyous laughter. It's the kind that comes right before crying.
"I made you lunch," she says, gesturing at the maybe-lasagna. "I used a recipe. An actual recipe. I measured things."
"I know," I say softly.
"I burned three batches before this one," she continues. "Giuseppe gave me emergency cooking lessons. Do you know how bad you have to be for Giuseppe to stage an intervention?"
"Wren—"
"I bought wine. Real wine. Not apple juice," she continues, her voice breaking. "I wanted to tell you I was falling in love with you."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Wren—"
"But you can't fall in love with someone who doesn't exist, can you?" She wipes her eyes angrily. "Holden Clark doesn't exist. There's just Holden Pierce, corporate spy, and I'm just another acquisition target."
"You're not a target," I insist.
"Really? What am I then?" she challenges.
"You're what I didn't know I was looking for," I say simply. "You're more than I deserve. And you're who I'm going to lose because I thought I could have both worlds."
She stares at me for a long moment. "Pretty words. Did you chart those too?"
Before I can answer, the door flies open and Delia storms in, followed by what appears to be the entire committee.
"We saw Sterling's car," she announces. "A Bentley. In Snowfall Creek. It's like seeing a unicorn, if unicorns were evil and wore Armani."
"It's not Armani, it's Brioni," Sterling calls from outside. "Much more exclusive."
"He's still here?" Teddy asks, peering out the window. "The corporate raider is just sitting in our town? Bold."
"We should egg his car," Giuseppe suggests.
"We're not egging anything," Delia says firmly. "We're civilized. We'll sugar his gas tank like adults."
"That's still vandalism," June points out.
"It's civic protection," Delia counters.
"Can everyone please leave?" Wren asks weakly. "I'm having a crisis here."
"We know, dear. Iris sent out an emergency text," Mrs. Patterson says, patting Wren's shoulder. "Sterling revealed everything in the inn lobby. Very dramatic. She live-tweeted it."
"Iris live-tweets?" I ask.
"She's very modern," Finn says, checking his phone. "Oh, she's trending. Hashtag CorporateInvasion. Hashtag FakeBoyfriend. Hashtag TragicCallus."
"My callus isn't tragic," I protest meekly.
"It is if it's your only accomplishment," June observes, taking notes.
"I have other accomplishments!" I insist.
"Name one that doesn't involve destroying small towns," Wren challenges.
"I..." I pause, realizing I can't. "I learned to change oil."
"Incorrectly," Finn adds. "You put it where the windshield fluid goes. Twice."
"I improved!" I protest.
"You put windshield fluid where the oil goes," he corrects. "That's not an improvement, that's just a different failure."
"Can we focus on the actual issue?" Delia interrupts. "Pierce Industries wants to buy our town."
"They can't buy an entire town," Teddy protests.
"They can buy enough of it to matter," I admit quietly. "The plan was to acquire key businesses, starting with the most vulnerable."
Everyone turns to look at Wren.
"The toy shop," she says flatly. "I was the entry point."
"The loan difficulties were manufactured," I confirm, hating myself. "Pierce Industries has connections at the bank. Not Miranda—she's clean. But higher up. They created pressure to make you desperate."
"And then you showed up," Wren says. "My knight in shining armor. How convenient."
"I didn't know you then," I say. "You were just a name on a spreadsheet."
"And now?" she asks.
"Now you're the reason I blocked Sterling's number. The reason I told the board no. The reason I'm probably going to lose my inheritance and honestly don't care," I tell her.
"Pretty words again," she says, but there's less venom in it.
Sterling honks his horn. "Board meeting in five minutes, Holden! Don't make me come back in there!"
"Let him come," Giuseppe says, cracking his knuckles. "I'll show him my pasta technique."
"That sounds wrong," June points out.
"You haven't seen what I can do with angel hair," Giuseppe says darkly.
"No one's pasta-fighting anyone," Delia declares. "We're going to handle this professionally."
"How?" Wren asks.
"First, we're going to the gala as planned," Delia announces. "All of us. Together."
"I'm not going anywhere with him," Wren says, pointing at me.
"Yes, you are," Delia says firmly. "Because Malcolm will be there with his yacht stories, and I'll be damned if we let him win because of corporate interference."
"This isn't about Malcolm!" Wren protests.
"When Malcolm's involved, it's always partly about Malcolm," Teddy says wisely. "Remember the harvest festival?"
Several people mutter about legal complications.
"Why—" I start.
"NOT NOW," Finn cuts me off.
Sterling honks again, longer this time.
"I should go," I say, heading for the door.
"Good," Wren says, but her voice wavers.
"To tell the board exactly where they can shove their acquisition plans," I clarify.
"You'd do that?" Wren asks, with a tiny bit of hope creeping into her voice.
"I'd do more than that," I tell her. "I'd burn the whole damn company down if it meant protecting this town. Protecting you."
"I don't need protection," she says.
"No," I agree. "But you deserve it anyway."
Sterling lays on the horn continuously now.
"Someone should really sugar his gas tank," Giuseppe mutters.
"I have sugar," Mrs. Patterson offers, pulling a bag from her purse.
"Why do you carry sugar?" Finn asks.
"Emergency baking situations," she explains.
"How is that an emergency?" June asks.
"You never know when you'll need to stress-bake," Mrs. Patterson says defensively.
"Or commit light vandalism," Giuseppe adds hopefully.
I pause at the door, looking back at Wren. She's surrounded by her army of eccentric defenders, covered in pasta sauce from our failed lunch, holding a candelabra like a weapon.
"Falling in love with you is the only real thing I've ever done," I tell her.
"I wish you were real," she replies quietly.
"I am real. Holden Clark Pierce is real. He's just also an idiot," I say.
"An idiot with one callus," Finn adds helpfully.
"The proudest callus in Vermont," I say, and despite everything, Wren almost smiles.
Sterling honks again, and Delia snaps.
"That's it. Giuseppe, get the sugar. Mrs. Patterson, you're on lookout. Teddy, create a distraction."
"What kind of distraction?" Teddy asks.
"Interpretive dance. You're dressed as Santa. Make it festive," she commands.
As I leave, chaos erupts behind me. Teddy's already starting some kind of Santa shuffle while Giuseppe and Mrs. Patterson sneak around Sterling's car with sugar bags.
"This town is insane," Sterling says when I get in the car.
"This town is perfect," I correct.
"You've lost your mind," he observes.
"Probably," I agree. "But I found something better."
"What? Love?" He says it like it's a disease.
"Purpose," I tell him. "And yes, love. And a callus I'm weirdly proud of."
Through the rearview mirror, I watch smoke pouring from Wren's windows. The committee rushes back inside, and I catch a glimpse of her wielding what looks like a fire extinguisher.
"Should we—" Sterling starts.
"They've got it," I say, watching the organized chaos. "They've always got each other."
As we drive away, Wren appears at her window. She sees me looking and gives me a very precise middle finger.
It's the most romantic gesture I've ever received.
"I'm going to fix this," I promise, even though she can't hear me.
"You're going to lose everything," Sterling warns.
"Everything I never wanted," I clarify, pulling out my phone to draft my resignation.
"The board will destroy you," he continues.
"Let them try," I say. "I've got a town full of people ready to commit festive vandalism in my defense."
"That's not a legal defense," Sterling points out.
"It is when the town lawyer is in on it," I tell him.
In the side mirror, black smoke pours from Wren's window. The committee has formed a bucket brigade while she directs traffic with that candelabra like some kind of apocalyptic orchestra conductor. Sterling mutters something about insurance liability.
I watch until we turn the corner, memorizing the scene—the chaos, the community, the woman I love standing in the middle of it all, flipping me off with perfect precision.
This is what I'm fighting for. Not because it makes sense, but because nothing else ever has.