Page 19 of My Secret Santa Clayton

NINE

Clay

I didn’t mean to scare her, but she was so on edge I didn’t think it was possible not to.

I’d followed Grace out of Millie’s—not because I wanted to be a creep, but because she looked scared…and now I needed to know what was going on. I couldn’t just let her walk out alone.

What if she got hurt?

I would never forgive myself.

I watched as she struggled to get the truck to start, and as she finally gave up. I walked up, trying to make noise so she knew I was coming, then I rapped on the glass, a simple tap-tap to snag her attention.

But hell, Grace jerked back like I'd lobbed a brick at her window, her brown eyes ballooning in pure fright. She took a heavy breath, then she cranked down the window.

“Jesus, Clay,” she gasped, voice ragged as if I'd just crawled out of a crypt instead of walked over from the diner.

“Grace, you look like you just had a heart attack,” I managed, though my own pulse hammered something fierce. “What the hell is going on with you?”

“Sorry, I…wasn't expecting anyone.” Her words stumbled out, guarded. “Especially not you.”

And there it was, the knife-twist reminder of the chasm between us. Except now wasn't the time for old wounds. I had bigger problems…

…like the fact that I was the total creep who’d tailed her here.

“Look, I saw you leaving the diner and…” shit, how could I explain without setting her off? “I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

Smooth, Hawthorne. Real smooth.

“Everything's fine, Clay. You don't need to play hero,” she shot back, the snarky edge I remembered so well slicing through the tension.

“Playing hero is the last thing?—”

“Look, I appreciate the knight-in-shining-flannel act, but I can handle this.” She motioned to her stubborn truck with a jerk of her head, all bravado now. “Go home.”

“Handle it?” Now that was a stretch. Last time she 'handled' a flat tire, she'd ended up hitching a ride on a hay wagon. Suspicion tightened its grip on me. If everything was as fine and dandy as she claimed, why did she jump a mile high when I showed up?

“Grace, come on,” I said. “Last time I helped you with a broken down car, I asked for a wrench and you handed me a screwdriver. Let me help.”

“Clay, I said I've got it.” Her tone was sharp, but the tremble in her voice gave her away.

“Sure you do,” I muttered—but I was already walking around the front of the car. “Pop the hood. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The night was already biting as I opened the truck up, taking a peek at the engine. Grace got out and looked with me, though I figured she didn’t know fuck all about what we were lookingat. Snowflakes started to fall, catching on her dark hair like tiny stars against the vast night sky. We both flicked on our phone flashlights, but the beams were pathetic against the darkness that had settled over the engine.

“Come on,” I grumbled, squinting at the mess of metal and wires before me. “You know I can't see jack with this.”

“Neither can I, Sherlock,” she shot back, the light from her phone casting eerie shadows across her face. “I thought you were supposed to be Mr. Fix-It around here. I’m just your beautiful assistant.”

I glanced up at her, then back down at the stubborn engine. “Alright, enough is enough. I'll take you home, Grace. The truck can wait until morning.”

“Like hell you will.” Her voice was firm, laced with that stubborn pride I remembered all too well. Even now, with her hands jammed into the pockets of her coat and her brow furrowed, she was every inch the defiant woman I'd once known.

“And what? You'll freeze out here waiting for a miracle?” I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest. “Mariah's not leaving anytime soon, and neither is this snow. It's twenty minutes to your place or hours here.”

“Fine.” The word was clipped as she turned off her phone light. “But this doesn't mean anything, Clay.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” I muttered, closing the hood with a thud that echoed in the quiet night.

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