Page 13 of Christmas With The Tycoon

By morning, my nerves feel raw. One more tiny fantasy memory and I swear I could combust before I even reach the lobby. This has to stop. All of it.

Avery meets me at the front desk, clutching a stack of papers like she’s afraid they might explode.

“Small crisis,” she whispers.

“Perfect,” I mutter. “Pile it on.”

“It’s about the revised plans. Mr. Sinclair sent a courier before sunrise.”

I blink. “He what?”

“He made changes. A lot of changes.” She hands me the envelope. “Some of them are … good.”

Of course they’re good. The man doesn’t know how to do anything halfway.

“I’ll review them after the downtown walk,” I say. “We need to finalize vendor layouts.”

Avery hesitates. “He’s waiting for you. At the Hope Peak Bakehouse.”

My heart misfires. “He’s what?”

“He said he wanted your feedback before the next draft. And he, um…” She lowers her voice. “He looked anxious.”

I shove the papers into my coat and head out into the crisp morning.

The walk into town is a tangle of cold air and pounding pulse. Snowmelt trickles along the curb. Lights still glow soft in the windows of Hope Peak’s quaint shops. The smell of cinnamon and rising dough drifts from the brick building ahead. Hope Peak Bakehouse has frosted windows fogged with morning warmth.

Through the glass, I see him – Graham Sinclair. He’s standing near the corner table beneath the garland-wrapped window with his hands in his coat pockets. Those are the same hands I fantasized having love on me last night. He doesn’t look like he belongs in a cozy bakery. When he spots me approaching, he straightens. The unreadable expression across his face is something I take notice of. He’s not attracted to me. This is all about business. I really must curb my imagination and secret wishes.

I push the door open, swallowed instantly by the scent of cinnamon, fresh bread, and brewing coffee. A bell jingles overhead.

“Morning, Willow.” His voice is lower in this warm space, almost intimate – and he’s addressing me by my first name. This is new.

“You’re out early,” I say, stepping closer than I should. “Again.”

“I wanted time to think.”

I chuckle. “About how to defend your design expansion?”

“No. About how to explain the changes I made without you assuming the worst.”

The jab lands exactly where he places it.

“I don’t assume the worst,” I mutter.

“You assume I don’t care.”

The words slice deeper than the cold outside.

I cross my arms. “Let’s get something straight, Sinclair. I care about Hope Peak. I’m doing my job. That’s all this is.”

“That’s not all this is.”

Heat floods my face. “We’re not doing this,” I whisper.

“Why not?” His voice drops low. It’s rough like dark honey. “You argue with me like you’re afraid of what else might happen if you stop.”

I freeze. The bakery’s warmth suddenly feels like a trap. “Don’t,” I whisper.