Page 25 of My Secret Santa Daddies

It’s been years since that messy breakup in college, but it still feels like yesterday sometimes. The regret, the things left unsaid, the stupid decisions we made.

Her blonde hair, now longer and a wavier than I remember, cascades around her shoulders, catching the warm glow of the diner’s Christmas lights.

That intense, ice blue stare that used to stop me dead in my tracks, are sharper now. Colder maybe, but I still catch glimpses of warmth behind them—glimpses of the girl I used to know, before life got complicated and we lost ourselves in the chaos of it all.

The crowd murmurs softly as the other townsfolk take their turns at the hat, the excitement of the annual SecretSanta drawing swirling through the air. It’s supposed to be lighthearted, and fun, but all I can feel is the weight of Sierra’s presence across the room. The weight of everything we left unsaid.

I shift in my seat, trying to focus on the other faces around the diner, the people I grew up with. They’re the ones who keep this town ticking. The ones who still make Silver Ridge feel like home, even after I’ve spent years running from it.

“What does this mean, Dad?” Jack asks, his voice muffled by the crumbs in his mouth.

“It’s a Secret Santa thing, buddy. We each draw a name and then we gotta buy that person a present without them knowing it’s from us. The idea is to find out what they've always wanted.”

Gregory Treeve, the town’s mayor, steps up next, his large frame casting a shadow over the counter as he pulls a name from the hat. His grin is wide as he tucks the slip of paper into his pocket, glancing around the room with that warm, familiar look he always has, like he’s everyone's favorite uncle. No doubt he’s already planning some elaborate gift for whoever’s name he pulled.

Then there’s Jake "The Snake" O'Hara, Silver Ridge’s local rodeo star, swaggering up to the hat like he owns the place. He pulls a name, a cocky grin on his face, and slips it into his pocket with a wink to whoever’s watching. Knowing Jake, whoever gets him as their Secret Santa is probably in for something wild and unexpected.

Marty Wilson, the theater owner, is next. He’s got that excited energy about him, practically bouncing on his toes as he pulls a name from the hat. He loves this stuff—the lights, the cheer, the traditions. Silver Ridge wouldn’t be the same without people like Marty keeping the magic alive.

One by one, the townsfolk move forward, pulling names and tucking them into their pockets.

It’s like a roll call of the town’s heartbeat—everyone stepping forward, playing their part in the tradition that keeps Silver Ridge together, year after year.

But no matter how much I try to focus on them, my attention keeps snapping back to Sierra.

She’s standing quietly, holding the Santa hat for everyone to step forward and draw their secret name. Wyatt and Cody go up there next.

But when Betty motions for me to come up, my heart pounds in my chest. I give Jack a reassuring smile and make my way through the crowd, my steps heavy against the floor.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s go together.”

As I approach, Sierra’s eyes meet mine again, and for a brief moment, it’s just the two of us, the weight of our past and all the unsaid words swirling around us. The air feels charged, electric, like it did the night we first kissed at a party.

I take the hat from her trembling hands, and our fingers brush, sending a jolt of electricity through me. I look down at the folded slip of paper in my hand, my heart pounding in my chest as I recognize her familiar handwriting.

Sierra Harper.

Shit.

“What does it say?” Jack shouts.

“It’s a secret, buddy. I’ll tell you later.”

I stuff the paper in my pocket, trying to school my expression into something resembling indifference.

“You drawing my name again, Griffin?” Jake "The Snake" O'Hara calls out from the crowd, a smirk on his face. The room erupts into laughter, but I can still feel Sierra’s eyes boring into me.

“You wish, Jake.”

I sit back down, my mind racing, but I force a smile for Jack. He’s still staring up at me, waiting for some hint of who I drew,but there’s no way in hell I’m telling him. Not yet. Not until I can wrap my head around the fact that I pulledSierra Bennet’sname out of the hat.

Of all the people in this room, it had to be her.

She’s doing her best to look unaffected, but I know her better than that. I know she felt it too—the charge between us when our fingers brushed.

That little spark.

The same one I’ve been trying to forget for years.

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