Page 16 of My Secret Santa Clayton

Fucking asshole.

“Dad,” I said, keeping it short, hoping he'd take the hint.

“Town was better when you weren't in it,” he grumbled, kicking up some gravel with his boot.

“Right back ‘atcha.” I kept walking. Bear growled low from beside me, sensing the tension.

“Train your mutt,” Dad shot back, his eyes narrowing.

“Good night, Pop.” I didn't wait for an answer, just opened the door to the truck and let Bear jump in.

“Clay!” His voice followed me, but I ignored it, slamming the door shut behind me. The engine roared to life, cutting through the silence of the night as I left him there, alone in the parking lot.

I let the truck’s vibration settle into my bones. Couldn't get away fast enough, not from him. But there I was, gripping the steering wheel like it could save me from drowning, watching through the rearview as the old man shuffled back to Millie's Diner.

EIGHT

Grace

I was starting to think Silver Ridge was going a littletoohard on Christmas.

I watched Mariah's hands dive into the closet like a kid on Christmas morning, tossing aside my everyday wear with a fervor. “Come on, there has to be something in here that screams 'party',” she insisted, her voice muffled by the fabric jungle.

I was only half-listening as I sat on the edge of my bed, fiddling with the camera lens cap. “You know I wouldn’t be interested in this at all if I wasn’t taking photos,” I muttered. “I can seriously just wear jeans and a t-shirt, we’re only going to Millie’s?—”

“Here!” Mariah emerged triumphant, a sparkly black skirt and red silk top in hand. She dangled them before me, her grin wide. “How about this?”

I glanced up at the outfit and shook my head instantly. “No way. That's an invitation for trouble.”

“Trouble, or fun?” Mariah countered.

“Mariah, I'm not going fishing for stares.”

“Come on, live a little,” she nudged, her tone playful yet insistent. But I knew better than to bite the bait—I wasn't aboutto give anyone the satisfaction, especially in something that left little to the imagination.

“But look how it sparkles,” she said, holding up the skirt. She pressed it under her belly and then started shimmying,oohingandaahinglike it was the most magical thing she’d ever seen.

“Stop dancing around and give that here,” I chided, snatching the skirt out of Mariah’s hand. “You look ridiculous.”

“Exactly. Clay won't be able to stop staring at you. Plus…somebody should wear it since I'm stuck with maternity clothes.”

“First off, you have a ton of cute maternity clothes,” I said. “And second, I do notwantClay Hawthorne’s attention.”

“Fine, fine…how about this one then?” Mariah said, then tossed a dark green dress at me. It was decent, ended just above the knee—conservative enough not to raise eyebrows but with a neckline that dipped low enough to keep things interesting.

“Better,” I admitted, running my hands along the soft fabric. “It'll have to do.”

“Clay won't know what hit him,” Mariah chuckled, helping me zip up at the back.

“Hey, it's not for him.”

“Sure, Grace,” Mariah teased, her eyebrow cocking in disbelief.

“Let's just get this over with,” I said, grabbing my camera from the dresser. Photography was my shield tonight; behind the lens, I could hide from probing eyes and lingering ghosts of the past.

“Truck keys?” Mariah asked, slipping on her coat.

“Got 'em.” I patted my pocket, feeling the familiar jangle of metal. We headed out into the chilly evening air, our breaths creating little clouds of fog as we walked toward the old truck.

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