Page 1 of Holiday Interference
CHAPTER ONE
Noelle
Snow in Atlantais like a bad one-night stand—brief, messy, and talked about for years.
Which is exactly why I didn’t plan for one.
And why tonight’s about to go sideways.
I tap my earpiece and dodge a tray of crab puffs. “Do we have confirmation on valet staging?”
“East entrance is backed up,” Jules, my assistant, replies through a crackle of static. “Some guests already requested rideshares, but ETA’s up to twenty minutes.”
Of course it is.
The atrium at The Pit is warm and glittering, all golden lights and high ceilings and holiday sparkle so thick it practically hums.
We’ve got thirty-foot trees, a string quartet, and enough champagne to float a yacht.
On paper, it’s perfection. On the ground?
It’s barely holding.
I smile anyway, because that’s what I do—smile, manage, adapt. I’m an event planner.
Stress is my cardio, and disaster is my sidekick.
“This is Atlanta,” someone laughs behind me. “We’ll get a light dusting, and everyone’ll act like it’s the apocalypse.”
I don’t turn around, but my left eye twitches with restraint.
We were supposed to get a flurry. Maybe two. Just enough to look cute on the event photographer’s camera roll.
But now it’s coming down in earnest, fat flakes slicking the windows and piling on the walkways like the universe had one too many eggnogs and decided to be dramatic.
Still, the sponsors are happy.
The quartet is plucking out some moody version of “Jingle Bell Rock.” And no one’s noticed the back end of the coat check is already soaked from guests shaking out faux-fur wraps like wet dogs.
I press a palm to my stomach and let out a slow breath.
Control. That’s the word. If I keep the structure tight—timelines, tray passes, run-of-show—I can absorb the chaos before it shows.
And if I absorb it, it can’t crack me.
A server swings by with a tray of bacon-wrapped figs, and I snag one before he disappears back into the crowd.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking a bite like it’s communion. Warm, salty, grounding.
Overhead, fairy lights blink with a little too much sass.
The wind kicks again, harder this time. I glance at the front glass—snow slanting sideways, guests still smiling.
Atlanta doesn’t believe in bad weather until it’s already iced over Peachtree Street.
I press two fingers to my earpiece. “Jules, flag me if DOT updates the closure list. I don’t want to wait until the news trucks show up to tell us we’re stranded.”
“Copy.”
