Page 17 of My Secret Santa Clayton

The moment I stepped into Millie's, it was like diving headfirst into a sea of flannel and Christmas sweaters. The place buzzed with conversation, laughter spilling over from every corner, mingling with the twangs of Christmas country music and the clinks of glasses. Dodging elbows and excusing myself past clusters of people I vaguely recognized, I tried to make myself small, unobtrusive.

“Grace Gibson? Haven't seen you around these parts in ages!” A burly man with a peppered beard blocked my path, his grin as wide as the doorway.

“Hey, Bill,” I said, plastering on a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, just visiting.”

“Still writing those fancy articles for the big city papers?” he asked, beer sloshing precariously close to the rim of his glass.

“Something like that.” I edged away, wanting to blend in with the crowd…

…only to find myself face to face with someone I never wanted to see.

Sierra Hall—once one of my best friends, and the girl who blamed me and Clay for her boyfriend’s death.Clay’s brother’s death.

She stared at me like she’d seen a ghost, three little kids around her. I’d seen through social media that she’d gotten married a couple years after high school and had been popping out babies ever since. She was one of the biggest reasons I’d left Silver Ridge; I couldn’t take the guilt.

“Grace?” she said. “I um…I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Sierra.” I nodded, keeping it short. “Kids are growing fast.”

“Yep.” Her reply was clipped, and she pulled her children closer, as if my presence might taint them with some unseen grime.

“Right, well…Merry Christmas,” I said, already turning.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” she tossed over her shoulder, steering her brood away from me and disappearing into the crowd.

I exhaled slowly, letting the tension flow out with the breath I'd been holding since I saw her face. It wasn't just the memory of Mike that made encounters with Sierra feel like navigating a minefield. It was everything left unsaid.

All that pain.

I thought I was done with awkward collisions when I bumped into something solid, a wall of flannel and muscle that had my camera swinging from my neck. I looked up, ready to unload a sarcastic apology when the words died in my throat.

Clay Hawthorne stood there, looking like he'd walked straight out of some rugged outdoorsman catalog…and damn him, he took the breath right out of my lungs.

“Grace,” he said, voice rough as gravel, but his eyes, those damn blues, they were the same. They still did things to me they had no right to do.

“Clay,” I managed, voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. “You again.”

“Could say the same for you. Seem to run into you everywhere I go.” He folded his arms across his chest, and I caught sight of the tattoo peeking from under his sleeve—stars and stripes, probably from the military.

“Well, it’s a small town, and I needed photos for the paper.” I held up my camera. “What's your excuse?”

“Betty invited me.” His gaze flicked away for a second, a shadow passing over his features so quickly I might've imagined it.

“Right. Of course she did.” I couldn't stop the snark; it was my default setting with him, safer than whatever this weird pull was that I was feeling.

“Still got that sharp tongue, I see,” he shot back, a hint of the old Clay surfacing.

“Keeps me from saying yes to things I should say no to.”

Like him, years ago. But we didn't talk about that. Not anymore.

“Shouldn't you be taking pictures or something?” He gestured to my camera, and I lifted it, snapping a shot of the decorations above us. A desperate attempt to shift focus from the tension sparking between us.

“What, you don’t want a photo of me?” he taunted.

“Look, I just want to?—”

Someone suddenly stepped up at our side, thrusting drinks into both of our hands. I looked over to find Kat Martin—a friend of Mariah’s from high school—eyeing us. “Drink up and play nice,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “It's Christmas, not a boxing match.”

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