Brighton laughs. “Oh, I know, but we could at least have a fundraiser to announce the project. Boost morale. People need something to look forward to.”
Holly slips in through the side door then, carrying a tray with three mugs and a plate of butter cookies. Her perfume hits before she speaks. Sweet, too deliberate.
She bends just a little too far as she sets the mugs down, giving me a view I’m not supposed to remember. Ryker catches it, shooting me a smirk I ignore.
“Mayor,” she coos, “your two o’clock meeting is in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, Holly. You’re an angel.” He pats her arm. She flashes a grin my way before gliding out.
Ryker grunts under his breath. “Your type’s exhausting.”
“She’s persistent,” I answer. “There’s a difference.”
“Same result.”
Brighton clasps his hands. “So, what do you think? Can I count on Pack Built Construction to save Christmas?”
The words sit wrong in my chest. Christmas hasn’t meant anything good for either of us in a long time.
We spend the holiday the same way every year. Cheap whiskey, no lights, no calls. Just the two of us, waiting for it to pass.
Ryker won’t even walk downtown in December. Too many decorations, too many memories he doesn’t talk about.
I clear my throat. “We’ll have to review the plans before we commit. And we’ve got Fernbridge to finish.”
“Of course,” Brighton says, already reaching for his planner. “Take your time. I’ll send over the documents later today.”
When we step back outside, the cold bites sharper. Snow’s coming down in thick, heavy flakes, dusting the street lamps and parked trucks.
Ryker tugs his beanie lower and starts toward the lot without a word. I fall into step beside him, boots crunching against the slush.
“That guy’s lost it,” Ryker mutters. “He wants us to rebuild a condemned hall before Christmas Eve? That’s suicide.”
“This will be our highest paying job yet,” I remind him. “Could be worth the headache.”
Ryker stops by the truck, staring at the snow building on the hood. His hands rest on the doorframe, rough knuckles whitening. “You know what that holiday does to me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to hang lights, or fix roofs for carolers, or play happy contractor for people pretending everything’s perfect.”
The wind pushes against us, carrying the faint smell of cedar and chimney smoke. I shove my hands into my pockets. “Maybe it’s time we did something different. Instead of sulking at home.”
His head tilts, eyes cutting toward me beneath his beanie. “You mean drink at the site instead?”
I laugh, but it doesn’t reach deep. “I mean… maybe fixing that hall would give us something else to think about.”
He studies me like he’s searching for something he can argue with. When he finds nothing, he shakes his head. “You’re an optimist. That’s your problem.”
“I’m broke. That’s my problem.”
He grunts, sliding into the driver’s seat. I follow, the old pickup groaning as we settle in. The heater squeals when hestarts it, filling the cab with dry warmth. We sit in silence while the windshield wipers clear the glass.
Ryker breaks the quiet first. “You really think we could pull it off?”
“If the plans from Denzel and Ridge make sense, maybe. We’d need a full crew and double shifts.”
He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “That hall’s rotted from the inside. You saw it last time we installed lighting for the Harvest Dance.”
