Page 12 of My Secret Santa Daddies

Cody snorts, stepping in before I can. “You’re really going to kick us out into the cold like that? We just trudged through half of Silver Ridge to get here.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Maybe,” Cody says, his grin unwavering. “But you know Wyatt won’t leave without making sure everything’s in order. Man’s got a hero complex.”

I shoot Cody a look, but he’s not wrong. I glance back at Sierra, and I can see it in her eyes—the urge to push us away, to shut the door on whatever this is. I get it. I get her. She’s always been like this.

But we’re not going anywhere. Not yet.

“Sierra,” I say, my voice dropping, more serious now, “I know you don’t want us hovering, but your car’s wrecked, and we both know it’s not going to fix itself. You don’t have to do everything alone. Let us help.”

“Jesus Christ. Why is everyone suddenly treating me like a toddler around here? I don’t need anything?—”

“I know you don’tneedhelp. But we’re here. So let us give you a break, just this once. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she glances down at the floor, clearly trying to figure out how to get rid of us without coming off as completely heartless. But after a moment, she lets out a slow breath, her shoulders sagging just slightly.

“Fine. But don’t make this a habit.”

Cody grins, stepping through the door like he’s won some kind of prize. “No promises.”

I gesture to the heap of metal that used to be her car that I had hauled back here. “Cody and I thought we’d see if it’s worth saving. We figured we’d take a look. Cody’s a gear head, if you remember.”

“How could I forget?” She steps aside, and I follow Cody in, my mind buzzing with memories of the last time we were here together. “Thanks,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “For checking in.”

I nod, trying to keep things easy. “Anytime.”

But even as we walk into her house and she shuts the door, I can’t help but notice the way her eyes linger just a little longer on the entrance—like she’s expecting someone else to walk through it. Like maybe, even after all this time, part of her is still waiting for Griffin.

“Do you want some coffee?” she offers.

“Coffee would be good,” Cody says, taking in the sight of her home.

The lights flicker on, revealing the living room, familiar yet different. It’s still the same cozy space I remember, but it’s changed. The space feels grown up. Minimalist and sleek, with a few framed photos on the mantel. No clutter, no clues as to who she is now, or who might be waiting for her at the end of the day.

I remember the last time I had stepped foot in this house. Four years ago, drunk and angry and?—

I follow Sierra into the kitchen, the warmth of the house doing little to ease the tension between us. The quiet hum of the coffee maker fills the room as she busies herself with scooping coffee grounds into the filter. I can see the way her shoulders tense, like she’s trying to shield herself from the weight of the conversation, and everything that’s unsaid between us.

“How have you been, really?” I ask, leaning against the counter, watching her as she moves.

She doesn’t answer right away, her back still to me as she measures out the coffee. I can tell she’s considering her words carefully, trying to decide how much to let me in. Finally, she sighs, her voice softer than I expected. “I’m alive.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s... something, I guess.”

She shoots me a look over her shoulder, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of that old fire in her eyes—the one that used to light up every time she was about to say something sharp. “Don’t make me regret letting you in, Wyatt.”

I smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She turns back to the coffee maker, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. The scent of fresh coffee fills the kitchen, warm and familiar, but the air between us is still thick with tension.

“What have you been up to?” she asks casually. I can tell she’s just making small talk, trying to keep things surface-level.

“Work,” I reply, not really offering much.

She scoffs lightly, not bothering to look at me. “That’s vague.”

“What do you do?” she asks, scooping another spoonful of coffee grounds into the filter, the motion is heavy, like she’s deliberately focusing on it.

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