Page 56 of My Secret Santa Clayton

He parked the car and turned off the ignition before he looked at me. “Yeah, you are,” he said. “But we'll keep our eyes open. Can't afford to get too comfortable.”

“Right.” I nodded.

We stepped out of the car, and the snow crunched under our boots as we made our way to the front door. Inside, the cabin's rustic interior was starting to feel homey. Bear greeted us, wagging his tail, his tongue lolling.

But…it was missing something.

I looked over at Clay. “You know what this place needs? A Christmas tree.”

He leaned back against the wall and raised an eyebrow at me. A faint smirk formed on his lips. “A Christmas tree, huh? And where do you propose we find one of those out here in the wilderness?”

I crossed my arms and snorted at Clay's question. “Um, outside, duh? Aren't you some big lumbersnack?”

Clay let out a bark of laughter. “Lumbersnack?” he echoed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yep. It's a thing.” I nudged him with my elbow. “Come on, I'm having a hell of a day. Do it for me.”

“Alright, alright,” Clay conceded with another chuckle. He turned to me, brushing his hands on his jeans. “You know, I think I've got some old Christmas decorations in the storage closet if you want to snoop around.”

“Sure,” I said, eager for any distraction.

Bear followed me as I made my way to the closet—my little helper. The dog's nose worked overtime, sniffing every inch as he helped—or more accurately, hindered—my search. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, dust motes hung in the air. It was mostly winter gear, some canned food, survival stuff that was essential out here.

Finally, my hand brushed against a box tucked away in the corner. I pulled it toward me and blew off a thick layer of dust, sending Bear into a sneezing fit. I laughed and apologized as he shook it off, then I lifted the lid and found a dusty old photo album set on top of a ton of sparkling Christmas decorations.

The ornaments were exactly what I wanted.

The album sparked my curiosity.

I mean…you can’t just turn off those journalist instincts.

I stepped back into the room just in time to see Clay wrestle through the front door with a small Christmas tree. Snow clung to his beard and hair, making him look like he'd walked straight out of a blizzard. He gave the tree a good shake, sending a flurry of white tumbling to the floor.

“Looks like you fought Mother Nature and won,” I said.

He shot me a half-exasperated, half-amused glance. “Nature's got nothing on me.”

“Sure,” I teased, then I set down the open box on the floor. “But what about this?”

Clay's eyes landed on the photo album and his posture stiffened.

“Clay?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

“My dad gave that to me,” he said. “I never opened it.”

“Okay,” I replied. I set the album aside on the table. “Let's focus on the tree for now.”

“Right.” Clay nodded.

He brushed off the last remnants of snow from his shoulders as he positioned the tree in the corner. Bear bounded over, sniffing at the branches and wagging his tail, swept up in our activity. We rummaged through the box of decorations, unearthing tangled strings of lights and an assortment of baubles.

“Remember how to do this?” I asked, handing Clay a strand of lights.

“Like riding a bike,” he answered, taking the lights and starting to wrap them around the tree.

We worked together in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence shared by people who’d known each other a long, long time—and even after everything, he still felt like home.

It felt like a matter of minutes before the tree really started to look like something, covered in old ornaments and lights I was amazed still worked. We stepped back together, the final ornament in place. Clay's grin spread slow and genuine across his face as he looked at the tree, now adorned with a hodgepodge of memories.

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