Page 77 of My Secret Santa Clayton

“Feels good,” I mumbled, my voice low.

“Good,” he replied. His hands moved with precision, not a caress but a gesture of pure care. I rested there, feeling the weight of my own body supported by his. In his arms, I didn't have to uphold the facade of being unbreakable.

“It's been a while since I could just... stop,” I admitted.

“You can stop now,” Clay assured me. His tone was even, carrying no judgment, only understanding.

For once, I let myself be weak, vulnerable.

With Clay, I found a momentary reprieve from having to be strong.

I let out a breath. “Thank you,” I whispered.

The words vanished into the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the tub. He didn't say anything back. Instead, he kissed my head gently. His arms tightened around me. We stayed that way, not moving, not speaking.

“Clay,” I said. My voice didn't shake. It didn't need to. He understood. He always did.

“Yeah?” He kept it simple. That's how Clay was. No frills, no fuss.

“Stay.” It was all I could manage.

“Always,” he replied.

There was no hesitation. His word was his bond. That much I knew about Clay Hawthorne.

Even in the silence, even without fancy words, he said everything I needed to hear.

Epilogue

CLAY

It felt like months had slipped by…but Christmas wasn’t over yet.

I pushed the door open to Millie's Diner and a bell jingled above. The room greeted me with glows of red and green, flickering lights strung up on every window and corner. The smell of cinnamon mingled with pine hit me hard, reminding me of a simple, steadfast truth.

Despite everything, the holiday spirit survived in Silver Ridge.

Grace's hand found mine, and I looked down at her. She gave me a little squeeze, and those eyes of hers danced with secrets.

“Got your gift ready?” I asked.

“It’s been ready for weeks,” she replied, a grin tugging at her lips.

I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Weeks ago, Grace had still hated me. I’d still thought she betrayed me.

A hell of a lot had changed since then.

Across the room, Mariah sat with her husband Colt. Their baby lay quiet in the carrier, swaddled in blankets. Mariahcaught my eye and smiled, a deep sense of satisfaction behind her weary gaze.

“Sleeping through the party, huh?” I called out to her.

“Best gift she could give us,” Mariah answered, her voice ripe with gratitude.

Kat and Gabe stood by the counter with my dad, their conversation easy and light. Dad laughed at something Gabe said, and for a moment, I saw the man he used to be before the drink took hold.

A week dry, and counting.

“Good to see him smiling again,” I said.

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