Page 30 of My Secret Santa Daddies

I don’t need to get him a gift or do any of this. I knew going to the party last night was a terrible idea, and I should’ve trusted my gut. I grind my teeth together, sink deeper into my couch and change the channel on the television.

“This is why I avoid the town’s little parties.” I mutter out loud.

The screen shifts to an animated map of Silver Ridge, snowflakes swirling over the little mountain town like a scene from a Hallmark movie.

“Silver Ridge is expected to see up to twelve inches of snow over the next twenty-four hours. With another fifteen over the weekend.” The forecaster’s voice drones, cheerful and chipper, completely at odds with the churning frustration inside of me. “Please prepare ahead of time with food and water.Meteorologists are saying this will be a recording breaking storm”.

The map glows with a swirling white vortex of cold, and it’s all I can do not to laugh bitterly at the thought of being snowed in here, alone, with the memory of that damn Secret Santa slip and everything it represents.

If I’m lucky the storm will keep up over the next twenty days and there’ll be no Secret Santa party.

A part of me wishes I could just bury it all under that snowstorm—Griffin, the tangled mess of my feelings, the way my heart squeezed when I saw his face last night. The way itstillsqueezes, even now, just thinking about him. But no amount of snow will be enough to bury those memories. They’ll stay right there, under the surface, ready to claw their way back up the moment I let my guard down.

I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands.

Just forget it, Sierra. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about the past.

It’s really not THAT big of a deal. I’m just being dramatic.

The television continues to babble on about the incoming storm, the wind speeds, the dropping temperature, and I force myself to focus on it, to block out everything else.

Outside, the wind howls against the window, rattling the old glass like a warning. It’s the kind of storm that can trap people in their homes, and make you feel like the world has shrunk down to the size of your own four walls.

But that’s fine. I’ve gotten used to being alone, haven’t I? I’ve been doing just fine, living my life, keeping to myself.

This time of year we always get massive snow storms. It’s nothing new.

So what if Griffin’s back in town? So what, if he’s suddenly in my head, making everything feel messy and unsteady again?

I dig my fingers into the armrest, my nails scraping the worn fabric.I don’t need to do this.I don’t need to get him a gift; I don't need to play along with the town’s stupid holiday games. I can sit right here, let the snow bury the roads, and wait for all of it to pass. Wait for Griffin to leave again, to disappear back into whatever life he built for himself outside of Silver Ridge.

Perfect.

The thought gives me a bitter, fleeting sense of relief, but then I remember the way he looked at me last night—the way his eyes softened when he thought no one was watching. The way he said my name, like he’d been holding onto it for years. And that bitter relief twists into something else, something raw and aching that I can’t quite swallow down.

I stare at the television, watching the forecast shift to warnings about road closures and freezing conditions. Twelve inches of snow. Maybe more. Enough to make travel nearly impossible.

I grab the slip of paper off the floor, smoothing out the wrinkles with my thumb, staring at the name one more time. I could burn it, shred it, throw it away. But instead, I fold it carefully, pressing the edges down until it’s a neat little square, and tuck it into the pocket of my sweater.

Then I lean back against the couch, and close my eyes as the wind howls outside, and try to convince myself that I’m making the right choice.

That when the storm hits, I’ll be strong enough to weather it alone.

The snow has been falling steadilyfor hours, thick and heavy, burying everything in a white blanket that stretches out as faras the eye can see. But inside, the cold has started to creep in, settling in my bones, making my fingers numb as I clutch the edge of the blanket tighter.

The power went out over an hour ago, plunging the house into darkness. At first, I thought it might flicker back on—just one of those brief outages that happen when the snow gets heavy. But now, with every passing minute, it’s becoming clear that it’s not coming back anytime soon.

The generator my dad left has been sitting untouched in the shed since I moved in. I’m clueless on how to start the thing.

The wind howls again, louder this time, and something in the branches outside cracks, startling me.

Silver Ridge is buried under at least a foot of snow now, with more falling by the second. No one’s getting in or out for days—weeks, maybe—not until the plows can clear the roads again. And judging by the rate at which it’s coming down... the situation didn’t seem promising at all.

I close my eyes, trying not to think about it—about how isolated this house is, how easily it could be missed for days if not for...

No. I don’t need to think about that. I’ll just get myself all worked up for no reason.

The house is old, and drafty, with gaps around the doors and windows that let the cold seep in. I try to distract myself by counting the seconds between the gusts of wind, but soon enough, even that doesn’t work. My teeth are chattering, and my fingers are turning stiff as the temperature drops further.

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