Page 30 of My Secret Santa Clayton

“Isn't it kind of messed up?” she said, still chuckling. “Sierra Hall lied and blew our lives wide open. What the hell?”

I nodded, a grin quirking my lips despite myself. “Yeah, it's wild. The whole damn thing.”

“Any idea why she did it?” Grace's fingers toyed with a lock of her brown hair, eyes searching mine for answers I didn't have.

“Beats me.” I shrugged, feeling the weight of everything unsaid between us. “We were all pretty screwed up after Michael's accident. Maybe we'll figure it out after we win this contest.”

“Winning? That'd be a first,” she quipped, a playful note in her voice that felt like a challenge.

“Hey, don't count us out just yet.” My reply came with a cocky edge, the competitive spark flaring to life between us once again. “You're with a professional, remember?”

“Professional, huh?” Grace's laughter was rich and full, the sound tumbling into the space between us. “I'll believe it when I see it, Hawthorne.”

We both chuckled as we stood up from our spot, brushing off any remnants of fallen leaves from our clothes. The air around us was crisp with the onset of evening, and the lights from the inn up ahead spilled warmth onto our path.

“Let's head back,” I suggested, tilting my head towards the glow of the inn. She nodded, and we started walking, the ground beneath our feet crunching softly.

It was a short walk, maybe fifty or so feet, but something flickered at the periphery of my vision. I turned sharply to my right and caught the tail end of movement—a shadow slipping behind one of the large oak trees lining the path.

“Did you see that?” I asked, peering into the falling snow, trying to make sense of what my eyes swore they witnessed.

“See what?” Grace followed my gaze, her body tensing up beside me.

“Someone's over there...” I trailed off, squinting to see through the growing darkness. My instincts, honed by years in the Marines, screamed that someone was watching us, lurking just out of sight.

“Come on, I want to know who wins,” she insisted, her hand gripping mine with unexpected strength. It was strange…there was something off about her reaction, but I couldn’t quite place it.

“Not us,” I muttered with a smirk, still scanning the tree-line, “Obviously.”

Her laugh was a quick burst of warm air in the cold night, and it pulled me back from the shadows to what mattered—her. Grace tugged at my hand, her fear evident in the urgency of her pull. I let her lead me away, but not without glancing back one last time, the unease settling heavily in my gut.

“Fine, let's go see this charade.”

We made our way inside, the noise of the holiday crowd washing over us as we entered. It was a mishmash of old carols and laughter, the smell of pine mingling with baked goods and mulled wine. Laura Bennet was standing at the front, a makeshift stage set up for the gingerbread contest announcements.

“Looks like we're just in time,” I whispered to Grace, nudging her with my elbow.

“Let's find a spot before they start throwing candy canes at the latecomers,” she quipped back, her eyes scanning the room for an opening.

We found a place near the back, close enough to hear but far enough to make a quick exit if needed. Children ran around, breaking off pieces of gingerbread from the display houses, their giggles bouncing off the walls. Parents mingled, sipping on eggnog, their voices a low hum against the backdrop of holiday tunes. There was an infectious joy in the air, one that almost made me forget the shadow I'd seen outside. Almost.

But then the inn doors swung open with a bang.

A chill wind swept in, carrying with it a sobering sense of dread that settled in my stomach like a lead weight.

He stood there, a silhouette framed by the doorway, the night's darkness clinging to him like a second skin—my father. His shoulders were hunched, and even from this distance, I could see the sway in his stance, the telltale sign he'd been drinking.

“Dammit,” I cursed under my breath, the festive atmosphere souring instantly.

Grace followed my gaze, her hand squeezing mine in silent support. “Clay?”

I didn't respond, instead focusing on the man who had just turned our evening upside down. He stumbled forward, his steps unsteady, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on me. There was a moment of recognition, a flash of regret passing over his face before it was quickly washed away by the next wave of drunken stupor.

“Shit,” I said quietly, my voice tense, “I've had too many to drive him home.”

Her grip tightened, her nails pressing into my skin. “What are you going to do?”

“Only thing I can.” I let out a resigned sigh. “Deal with it.”

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