"That was never actually on the table," Callum interjects, then immediately looks like he regrets speaking when all eyes turn to him.
"Of course it wasn't," I wink at him. "Because you and Brynn are smarter than that."
I watch Callum's shoulders relax slightly as Brynn shoots him an encouraging smile. There's a definite spark between those two that I'm going to have to nurture.
"Most importantly," I say, "we need all hands on deck for community integration. The council expects to see Blackwood at every holiday event from now until Christmas. I've posted the schedule by the coffee bar. Please sign up for at least two events each."
Jenna Park raises her hand. "Is Atticus really coming to all these events? Because no offense, but I've worked with him for three years and I've never seen him at a company picnic, let alone a town tree lighting."
"Oh, he'll be there," I promise, unable to keep the mischief from my voice. "Even if I have to drag him by his custom-tailored tie."
The group chuckles, and I can't help but smile, picturing Atticus's face when he realizes exactly what he's committed to. Three weeks of community events will either soften his corporate edge or drive him completely insane. Either way, it'll be entertaining.
As the team disperses, I check my phone. Three missed calls from Carly at Perfect Brews and a text from Levi:Council wants more concrete commitments. Make sure your CEO friend isn't just paying lip service.
I sigh, tucking the phone away. Everyone wants a piece of Atticus Morgan, the ruthless CEO with a reputation for corporate conquests. Only I know the man beneath the tailored suits; the one who stayed up all night helping me prepare for my business school interview, who remembers how I take my coffee even when he's juggling multi-million dollar deals, and who sent flowers when my cat died even though he's allergic and claims to hate pets.
That's the Atticus I need to show Hope Peak. The real one, not the corporate shark the town is expecting.
My phone buzzes again, a text from Atticus himself:Conference room. Now. Mother crisis escalating.
I grab my tablet and hurry across the open workspace, narrowly avoiding a collision with a maintenance worker hanging pine boughs along the timber beams. The contrast between the rustic decorations and the sleek metal railings of the staircase catches my eye; a visual representation of the culture clash we're navigating.
Atticus paces the length of the glass conference room when I arrive, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight.
"That's not what I...” He pauses, clearly interrupted. "Mother, the holiday gala is a business function, not a debutante ball." Another pause. "No, I don't need you to...” He looks up, spots me, and his expression shifts from frustrated to relieved.
"Mother, I have to go. My Project Operations Manager needs me urgently." He ends the call without waiting for a response, dropping his phone onto the conference table with a clatter.
"Project Operations Manager?" I raise an eyebrow, settling into a chair. "That's so formal for your best friend. I prefer 'Professional Atticus Wrangler' or 'Chief Officer of Making Atticus Seem Human.'"
"Very funny." He runs a hand through his dark ash-brown hair, disheveling it in a way that makes him look boyishlyvulnerable, a rare glimpse behind the corporate mask. "She's bringing a guest to the gala. A woman named Charlotte Whittington."
"Let me guess. Impeccable breeding, MBA from an Ivy college, comes from old money, and is conveniently single?"
"Yale Law, actually. And apparently she's 'just perfect for me.'" He drops into the chair beside me, loosening his tie with an uncharacteristic display of discomfort. "This is exactly what I don't need right now."
"Poor Atticus," I tease, though part of me feels an unexpected twinge at the thought of him with some polished society woman. "Having to fend off beautiful, accomplished women your mother throws at you. Such a hardship."
He fixes those steel-gray eyes on me. "You know it's not about that."
"I know." I reach over, giving his hand a quick squeeze. "Your mother means well. She just wants you to be happy."
"According to Vivienne Morgan, happiness requires a society-approved wife, 2.5 children, and a summer home in the Hamptons."
"And what does happiness look like to Atticus Morgan?" I ask, suddenly genuinely curious.
Something shifts in his expression; a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability I rarely see. "I'm not sure anymore. Success used to be enough."
"And now?"
The moment stretches between us, charged with something I can't quite name. Then his phone buzzes, breaking the spell.
"The council is requesting a formal presentation of our community integration plan," he says, checking the message. "Tomorrow morning."
I stand, grateful for the distraction. "I'll get on it. Brynn can help with the visuals."
"Sloane." His voice stops me as I reach the door. "Why did you leave Perfect Brews for this? You loved that coffee shop."
