Page 36 of My Secret Santa Clayton

“Here.” Clay handed me a glass, the deep red liquid swirling dangerously close to the edge. “Don't spill. This rug cost…well, it was free.”

“Oh, I would never ruin your free rug,” I quipped, accepting the drink as I patted the floor beside me. “Join me. It's warmer by the fire, and Bear can only do so much.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before lowering himself down next to me, leaving just enough space so our knees weren’t touching. But not for lack of wanting—I could feel the heat radiating from him.

“Cheers,” I said, holding up my glass.

“Cheers,” he replied, clinking his against mine.

We both took a sip, and I watched the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. It was quiet for a moment, just the crackling of the fire and the storm outside contesting for dominance. Then he spoke up.

“About the other night, at the inn...” He trailed off, looking into the fire rather than at me. “Thanks for stepping in with my dad.”

“Ah, it was nothing.” I waved my hand dismissively. “I could handle him.”

“Still,” he insisted, “he doesn’t like me telling him what to do. In fact…I’m pretty sure he wishes I was dead.”

My mouth went dry and I took another swig of wine to try to get my head back together. Jesus. That was heavy.

“He’s still angry at you for Michael?” I asked quietly.

Clay sighed. “Don’t think he’ll ever stop.”

“Clay, you know that's not on you, right?” I reached out, placing my hand over his. His skin was rough, calloused from years of hard work, but the warmth was welcome.

“Maybe,” he grunted, “but that doesn't make it any easier to live with.”

“Look at me.” I waited until those blue eyes met mine—there was so much pain in them. “You can't carry that weight forever.”

He shrugged, pulling his hand away. He took his own sip of wine, his eyes warm in the firelight. “Some things don't just shake off, Grace.”

The fire popped, sending a small cascade of sparks up the chimney. Bear, who'd been lying by our feet, lifted his head briefly before settling back down with a heavy sigh.

“Clay, we were both there that day. We couldn't have known. It happened too fast,” I said, my voice soft but firm. I looked down into the dancing flames, feeling the weight of my own memories pressing in on me. Clay’s twin brother Michael, hishead bleeding on the deck of a stolen boat…Sierra screaming, sobbing.

Clay’s voice brought me back to the present. “He deserved a good life.”

That hit me hard—and I reached out, touched him again. “You do too.”

“Thank you for saying that.” His voice was low, almost lost to the crackling of the fire. He looked over at me…and his gaze dropped to my mouth. Our faces were mere inches apart, closer than I'd initially realized.

“Is there something on my face?” I asked, self-consciously touching my lips.

“Why?” His eyes didn’t move. He was fixated on my lips.

“You're staring,” I breathed.

“Sorry,” he murmured, but he didn't look away. Instead, his hand came up, thumb brushing against my lower lip. “You had a little bit of wine there.”

My heart thudded once, hard, like it was trying to break free from my chest. His touch lingered, sending a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the cold. In the dim light, I saw the slight curve of his lips, and then he was moving closer.

“Clay—” I started, but the word got caught somewhere between my brain and my mouth…because he was touching me.

His other hand found the side of my face, fingers cool against my skin. He tilted my chin up.

His lips found mine.

It wasn't a question or a gentle request—it was a claim, confident and sure. My eyes fluttered shut as I gave in to the kiss, to the taste of red wine that lingered on both our lips, to the feel of him so close. The world narrowed down to this tiny cabin, to the warmth of the fire, and to Clay, whose hands now cradled my face as if it were something precious.

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