Page 25 of My Secret Santa Clayton

"Damn it, Betty," I muttered under my breath. I had about as much interest in frosting and gumdrops as I did in a root canal. But the look in her eyes said I wasn't getting out of this one without a fight.

"Come on, Clay. It's tradition!" Her hand latched onto my arm, pulling me toward the tables covered in candy construction materials. "It'll be fun, you'll see."

"Betty, really, I should be heading out." My voice was a half-hearted attempt at an escape. Maybe if I made it to the door, I could still avoid this whole fiasco.

She cocked an eyebrow, hands on her hips in a way that told me she wasn't buying my act for one second. "Clay Hawthorne, you and I both know you don't have any other commitments today.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but what was the point? She had me cornered, and somewhere beneath her meddling exterior, I knew she meant well.

It was just Betty being Betty—queen of the 'you'll thank me later' brigade.

"Fine,” I grumbled. "But after this, we're even."

"Promise." Her smile was too sweet, like the frosting waiting to be slathered on those gingerbread walls. I followed her lead, feeling the weight of inevitability settle over me. "Here's your spot. And I've found you the perfect partner!"

"Betty," I warned, but she was already off, her mission accomplished.

I let out a sigh as I scanned the room, and that's when I saw her. Grace. Standing there with that look that could cut glass, sizing me up like I was a misprint in her latest article.

My partner.

Damn it.

Across the room, Kat caught my eye, giving me a thumbs-up paired with a grin wide enough to swallow the room whole. Gabe sat next to her, smirking like he'd just pulled off the heist of the century. That's when it clicked—this wasn't just Betty being her usual matchmaker self.

This was orchestrated, a setup from the start.

"Hey, Clay!" Kat called out, her voice echoing across the lobby.

"Traitors," I hissed, going quiet as Grace sat beside me.

"Seriously?" Grace's voice was as sharp as the winter chill outside. "You?"

I raised my hands in surrender, the defensive gesture feeling inadequate against her glare. "Hey, I don't like this either. I didn’t even want to do this?—"

"Yeah, neither did I," Grace shot back, her eyes rolling with annoyance. She was decked out in her usual journalist armor—button-down, slacks, and those boots that meant business. "I came here to take pictures for the paper, and I somehow got roped into participating." Her hand cut through the air, motioning dismissively towards our supposed benefactors. “Hey, Betty? Laura? We really don’t want to?—”

But Laura was in her element, already at the front of the room with a clipboard clutched in one hand and an air of authority that demanded attention. "Alright, everyone!" she announced. "You've got two hours to finish decorating your gingerbread houses. And remember, it's not just about looking good—it's about structural integrity too."

"Great," I muttered under my breath, glancing at the mess of candy and frosting sprawled out on the table. It looked like a sweet shop had exploded.

"Structural integrity?" Grace scoffed, eyeing the pile skeptically. "It's a gingerbread house, not a skyscraper."

"Still, we should probably have some kind of plan," I suggested, reaching for a gingerbread wall, only to have my hand slapped away.

"Plan?" Her eyes narrowed, challenging. "Your plan is probably to slap it all together with a bunch of frosting and call it good." She snatched up the icing bag before I could grab it. "We're doing this my way."

"Your way?" I shot back, frustration warming my cheeks. "What, you gonna write an expose on poor construction practices?"

"Better than acting like a bull in a china shop," Grace snapped, squeezing out a dollop of icing with more force than necessary.

"Look, we're in this together, like it or not," I said, gritting my teeth. "So let's just get it done without killing each other, okay?"

"Fine," she huffed. "Just don't mess it up."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I replied

But the truth was, working alongside Grace, even on something as trivial as this, felt like stepping into a minefield blindfolded—exciting, dangerous, and stupidly heart-pounding.

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