1
GEMMA
Valentine’s Day had infected Wildwood Valley.
I noticed it more as I drew closer to the entrance to town. Red and pink ribbons wrapped around the power poles. Heart-shaped banners hung from the Wildwood Valley Inn’s Tudor façade. Even the Pancake House next door had a hand-painted sign in the window advertising their “Sweetheart Special.”
Not that I was bitter. I wasn’t. Twenty-three was too young to be bitter about love. I just had other priorities right now—like proving to everyone at the mayor’s office that I was more than the kid they sent to fetch coffee and take notes at meetings.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder. I glanced at the screen. Mom.
I let it go to voicemail. I already knew what she wanted—to ask if I had plans tonight, to remind me that she and Dad had been married for two years by the time she was my age, to gently suggest that maybe I should put myself out there more. She meant well. They both did. But their love story wasn’t mine, and I was tired of feeling like I was running behind on some invisible timeline.
Love would happen when it happened. Right now, I had a career to build.
The firehouse came into view on my left, all gleaming red trucks and modern architecture. Directly across the street, the Wildwood Ridge Roadhouse sat quiet this early in the morning, though I caught a glimpse of red tablecloths through the windows. Even the honky-tonk was leaning into the holiday.
I pulled past the firehouse and slowed as I approached my destination. The sad little trailer where Dr. Hanson ran her veterinary practice sat on its foundation, looking more temporary than ever. Next to it, a patch of cleared dirt marked the future site of the real clinic—the project the mayor’s office had been overseeing for months.
The project I’d been sent to check on. Today. On Valentine’s Day. Because apparently, progress reports didn’t take holidays, and since I was the newest and youngest member of the staff, I got the jobs no one else wanted.
I parked next to the lone black truck already in the lot and killed the engine. No crew in sight. No sounds of construction. Just that single truck and a construction trailer serving as the on-site office, looking lonely against the gray February sky.
Someone was here, at least.
I grabbed my bag, climbed out into the cold, and picked my way across the dirt lot toward the trailer. My practical flats weren’t ideal for the terrain, but I’d learned early that heels and fieldwork didn’t mix. Three metal steps led up to the door. I knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting.
The man inside looked up from a desk buried in blueprints and paperwork.
I forgot how words worked.
He was big. That registered first. Broad shoulders strained against a flannel shirt, arms roped with muscle, hands largeenough to make the pen he held look like a toy. Dark hair that needed a cut. A jaw sharp enough to cast shadows.
And eyes like a frozen lake. Pale blue-gray, cold and assessing, fixed on me like I’d interrupted something important.
“Can I help you?”
His voice matched the rest of him. Deep, rough, uninviting.
“Gemma Ellis.” I stepped inside and shut the door against the chill. “Mayor’s office. I’m here to review the project timeline and budget reports.”
Something flickered across his face. Annoyance, maybe. “They sent someone on Valentine’s Day?”
“They sent me on Valentine’s Day.” I kept my tone pleasant, professional. “Progress reports don’t take holidays, apparently.”
He stared at me for a beat too long. Then he gestured toward the folding chair across from his desk. “Suit yourself. This’ll take a while.”
I crossed the cramped space and sat, setting my bag beside my feet. The trailer was small but organized—blueprints tacked to every wall, filing cabinets lining one side, an ancient coffeemaker in the corner that looked like it ran on spite and habit. The space smelled like paper and sawdust. I tried to ignore the scent.
“I don’t think we’ve officially met,” I said as he rifled through a stack of folders. “You took over the project recently?”
“Kade Mercer. Excavation and foundation.” He found the folder he wanted and dropped it between us. “Started two months ago when the last contractor walked.”
“I remember. Materials dispute, right?”
“Something like that.” His tone didn’t invite follow-up questions.
I flipped open the folder. Budget spreadsheets, invoices, timeline projections—everything I needed to verify that the project was on track. It would take hours to work throughproperly. Hours in this cramped trailer with a man who seemed allergic to small talk.