Chapter 1

Camille

The Christmas lights strung across Millbrook's historic downtown sparkle like scattered diamonds against the December sky. I adjust my emerald green wrap dress—a bold choice that hugs my curves in all the right places—and check my reflection in the glass doors of the Millbrook Cultural Center one last time. The annual Architecture Guild Christmas Gala. The one event I've been looking forward to all month.

"You've got this, Camille," I whisper to myself, watching my breath fog in the crisp air.

The moment I step through those mahogany doors, warmth envelops me. Not just from the heating, but from the energy buzzing through the room. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over architects, city planners, and construction moguls mingling beneath soaring vaulted ceilings. The scent of pine from towering Christmas trees mingles with expensive cologne and the faint aroma of mulled wine.

"Camille! There you are." Sarah Chen, one of the senior partners at my firm, glides over with two glasses of champagne. "You look stunning. That color is absolutely perfect on you."

"Thank you." I accept the flute, the bubbles tickling my nose. "This place looks incredible. Did you see the way they incorporated those sustainable lighting elements into the design?"

"Only you would notice the technical details first." Sarah laughs, but there's admiration in her voice. "Come on, there are some people I want you to meet."

We drift through the crowd, past conversations about zoning ordinances and green building certifications. I find myself genuinely enjoying the networking: discussing my latest project, a community center designed to blend modern functionality with the town's Victorian aesthetic. The champagne loosens my tongue just enough to make me charming without crossing into unprofessional territory.

"The key is understanding that architecture isn't just about creating spaces," I tell a group of contractors gathered near an ice sculpture shaped like the town's historic courthouse. "It's about creating experiences. Buildings should tell stories."

"Beautifully said." An older woman with silver hair nods approvingly. "You remind me of myself at your age. That passion is going to take you far."

The conversation flows easily until I spot him across the room.

Marcus.

My ex-boyfriend stands near the bar, looking infuriatingly handsome in his charcoal suit. The same suit he wore to last year's gala. When we were together. When I thought we had a future.

My champagne glass suddenly feels too heavy. The room too warm. Too small.

"Excuse me," I mumble to no one in particular, weaving through the crowd toward the nearest exit.

The terrace doors are barely visible through the sea of black tuxedos and cocktail dresses, but I push forward with single-minded determination. Finally, blessedly, I burst through the French doors onto the stone terrace overlooking Millbrook's town square.

Cold air slaps my cheeks, but I welcome the shock. Out here, I can breathe. Out here, I don't have to pretend seeing Marcus doesn't affect me. Even though it's been eight months since we broke up. Even though I'm the one who ended it when I realized he'd never see me as anything more than arm candy at events exactly like this one.

I lean against the stone balustrade, watching couples stroll hand-in-hand past the old-fashioned streetlamps below. Christmas carols drift up from somewhere in the distance, probably the town square's evening concert.

"Running away from someone or toward something?"

The voice is deep, amused, and unfamiliar. I turn to find a man approaching from the shadows near the terrace's far corner. He's tall—easily six-foot-two—with broad shoulders that fill out his black tuxedo perfectly. Salt-and-pepper hair catches the light from the party spilling through the windows behind us, and when he steps closer, I can see his eyes are the kind of blue that reminds me of deep water.

"Away from," I answer honestly. "Definitely away from."

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich. "In that case, mind if I join your escape? I was getting tired of discussing building codes and foundation permits."

"You're an architect?"

"Guilty as charged." He extends a hand. "Jack Baldwin."

My eyes widen slightly. Everyone in Millbrook's architecture community knows that name. Jack Baldwin designed half the commercial buildings downtown, including the award-winning library renovation that became a model for sustainable historic preservation.

"Camille Morton." I shake his hand, surprised by the calluses I feel despite his obvious success. "I know your work. The Riverside Commons project was brilliant."

"You know, most people just compliment the pretty facades. You actually looked at the technical innovation." His smile transforms his entire face. "I'm impressed."

"Don't be too impressed yet. I might start geeking out about your use of reclaimed materials and energy-efficient systems."

"Please do. It's rare to meet someone who appreciates the unsexy parts of architecture."

We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, both looking out over the square. A light snow has started falling, dusting the Victorian lampposts with white.

"So what are you running from in there?" he asks, nodding toward the party behind us.

"Ex-boyfriend. You?"

"Boring conversation with a city councilman about his nephew who wants to be an architect." Jack leans against the balustrade beside me. "Though I have to say, your reason sounds more dramatic than mine."

"Trust me, it's not. Just your standard 'ran into someone I'd rather not see' situation." I take a sip of champagne, realizing I'd been clutching the glass this entire time. "What about you? Don't you enjoy schmoozing with the local political elite?"

"About as much as I enjoy root canals." His laugh lines deepen. "I'm better with buildings than people, most of the time."

"I find that hard to believe. You seem pretty good with people to me."

"Present company is making it easier than usual."

The compliment sends an unexpected flutter through my chest. There's something about the way he looks at me… direct, interested, but not predatory like so many men at these events. He's treating me like an equal, not like someone he's trying to impress or seduce.

"How long have you been practicing in Millbrook?" I ask.

"About fifteen years now. Moved here from Boston after—" He pauses, something flickering across his face. "After my divorce. Wanted a fresh start somewhere I could actually make a difference instead of just building monuments to corporate ego."

"And have you? Made a difference, I mean."

"I'd like to think so. Though some days I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle against strip malls and parking lots." He turns slightly to face me better. "What about you? Millbrook native?"

"Born and raised. Went away for college and grad school, but I always knew I'd come back. This place gets in your blood, you know? All that Victorian charm mixed with small-town stubbornness."

"It does have a certain character. Takes a special kind of architect to work within these historical constraints while still pushing innovation."

"You've obviously figured it out. Your buildings manage to honor the past while looking toward the future."

"That's very kind of you to say." There's genuine appreciation in his voice. "Though I have to admit, I've been stuck on my current project. A mixed-use development that needs to blend with the historic district while meeting modern energy efficiency standards. It's proving... challenging."

"What's the site?"

"The old Henderson textile factory on Mill Street."

I nearly choke on my champagne. "Seriously? I've been sketching ideas for that building since I was in high school. It's been sitting empty for what, ten years now?"

"Twelve, actually. The city finally decided to do something about it." His eyebrows raise with interest. "You've been thinking about it that long?"

"It's such a perfect example of adaptive reuse potential. All those beautiful brick facades, the natural light from those huge windows..." I can feel my excitement building. "Sorry, I get carried away talking about buildings I love."

"Don't apologize. It's refreshing to meet someone who sees potential instead of problems." He's studying my face now, and I feel heat spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the champagne. "Tell me more about these sketches."

"Well, the main challenge is preserving the industrial character while creating spaces people actually want to live and work in. But those timber post-and-beam structures are incredibly strong. You could create these amazing loft-style apartments while keeping ground-floor retail..."

I realize I'm gesturing animatedly with my hands and probably talking too fast, but Jack seems completely engaged. His blue eyes never leave my face, and he's nodding along like what I'm saying actually matters.

"Have you thought about the parking situation?"

"Underground. Definitely underground. The minute you put surface parking around that building, you kill the pedestrian flow from downtown." I pause, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry. I'm redesigning your project without even seeing the plans."

"Actually, you're hitting on a lot of the same solutions my team has been discussing. Great minds think alike." The snow is falling heavier now, dusting his dark hair with white flakes. "You know, I have a daughter about your age. She's an architect too, actually."

Something in his tone shifts slightly when he mentions his daughter, but before I can analyze it, he continues.

"She's working in Seattle right now, but she always says the same thing about preservation projects. Respect the bones, but don't be afraid to add some muscle."

"Smart daughter."

"She is. Takes after her old man." The smile he gives me is different now—proud, paternal. "Though she'd probably roll her eyes at me standing out in a snowstorm talking shop instead of working the room like a proper businessman."

"The room will still be there when we go back in. Besides, when was the last time you had a conversation about architecture that didn't involve budgets and timelines?"

"Good point." He brushes snow from his sleeve. "Though I have to ask—aren't you cold? That dress is gorgeous, but it's not exactly winter weather appropriate."

I realize I've been so caught up in our conversation that I haven't noticed the goosebumps spreading along my arms. The thin wrap I threw over my shoulders is doing absolutely nothing against the December air.

"I'm fine," I lie, just as a particularly strong gust of wind makes me shiver visibly.

Without hesitation, Jack shrugs out of his tuxedo jacket and holds it out to me. "Here."

"I couldn't—"

"You can and you will. My mother would disown me if she knew I let a beautiful woman freeze to death while I stood there watching."