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 ChristmasEve. 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.”
