Jenna beams. "Sloane already has us booked for the Winter Festival committee, the charity auction, and...”
My phone buzzes. Marcus, seated to my right, discreetly slides his tablet toward me. The screen displays a notification:Town Council Representatives - Arrival in 5 minutes.
"We'll continue this after the council meeting," I tell the team. "Everyone, review the community commitment package.This isn't just a formality; these relationships will determine how smoothly our operation runs."
As the team disperses to prepare, Sloane lingers by my side. "You're nervous," she observes, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
"I don't get nervous."
"Right, and I don't stress-bake at midnight. I know you, remember?" She straightens my already perfect tie. "These are my people, Atticus. They're going to be tough but fair. Just... don't be the Wall Street shark they're expecting."
"I'm not from Wall Street."
"You know what I mean." Her fingers linger at my collar before dropping away. "Be the Atticus I know, not the one on the Blackwood Industries website."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at her words. Sloane has been the one person who's seen past my carefully constructed professional façade since we met three years ago at a business conference. She'd called me on my bullshit within five minutes of the introduction, and somehow we'd ended up talking until 3 AM in the hotel bar about everything from corporate ethics to our favorite childhood books.
"I'll try," I promise. "But if they start with the 'corporate takeover' accusations...”
"Then take a breath and remember you're not just here to conquer. You're here to create something that benefits everyone." She squeezes my hand quickly. "Including you."
Two hours later, we're still seated in the conference room with the town council representatives. Levi Voss, their apparent spokesperson, hasn't stopped frowning since he arrived. This has been a long meeting and I’m ready for it to be over with.
"Mr. Morgan, while we appreciate the potential economic benefits of your winter resort, we need more than financialprojections." Levi's voice is firm. "Hope Peak isn't just a picturesque backdrop for your corporate expansion."
I open my mouth to deliver my usual reassurances, but Sloane catches my eye from across the table. The slight shake of her head is all I need to recalibrate.
"You're absolutely right, Mr. Voss," I say instead. "Which is why I've asked Sloane to join my leadership team. She understands what makes Hope Peak special, and I trust her to ensure we enhance, rather than diminish, that."
Levi's expression softens marginally as he looks to Sloane. "You're vouching for this operation? For him?"
"With my whole heart," she replies without hesitation. "Atticus isn't like other corporate executives. He cares about doing this right."
I manage not to look as surprised as I feel at the conviction in her voice.
"No offense, Sloane," Levi continues, "but talk is cheap. We need to see real commitment to our community. Not just money, but presence. Participation. Heart."
"I'll be here through the holidays," I find myself saying. "Participating in local events, getting to know the community beyond the boardroom."
Levi exchanges glances with his colleagues. "Well, that's a start. We'll expect to see you both at the Winter Festival committee meeting tonight." He looks between us. "And the charity auction. And the children's holiday pageant."
When the council members finally file out, I turn to Sloane with an arched eyebrow. "The children's holiday pageant? Really?"
"Don't worry, I'll bring tissues for when you inevitably tear up at the little snowflakes' dance number." She grins, gathering her notes. "You did great in there. That wasn't so hard, was it? Showing your human side?"
"I feel naked," I mutter.
She laughs, the sound echoing in the now-empty room. "Hardly. Though I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who knows you're wearing a tuxedo under that jacket."
"It's not a tuxedo, it's a suit," I correct her. "And how did you...”
"I have eyes, Atticus. The cut of that parka couldn't possibly hide the Tom Ford underneath." She stands, gathering her tablet. "You do realize people wear flannel here, right? Real flannel, not the designer version."
"I'm not wearing flannel."
"We'll see about that." Her smile turns mischievous. "I have three weeks until Christmas to overhaul your wardrobe. Along with your reputation as the ice king of Blackwood Industries."
A knock at the door interrupts us. Spencer Sullivan stands in the doorway, work boots tracking a small dusting of snow across the polished concrete floor. Beside him is a younger woman clutching a clipboard, her neat ponytail and practical attire suggesting she's all business.
