Page 32 of My Secret Santa Daddies

I let out a long sigh, the fight finally draining out of me. “Fine. But don’t make a habit of this.”

Wyatt raises an eyebrow. “Dragging you out of a snowstorm or barging into your life?”

“Both.”

Without another word, they start moving like they’ve done this a hundred times. Wyatt and Cody begin clearing a path to the truck, the rhythmic sound of their shovels breaking the silence. Griffin steps inside, brushing snow off his shoulders as he helps me gather a few essentials—extra clothes, toiletries, my phone, and other small things I can’t leave behind.

He pauses when he grabs my coat from the hook by the door. “You’re really stubborn, you know that?”

I snatch it from him, my hand brushing his for a moment. “Takes one to know one.”

“We couldn’t let you stay here, Sierra.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod.

Cody pops his head back in, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Ready? Truck’s warming up.”

“Just about,” Griffin says, his voice softening as he turns back to me. “Grab what you need.”

Minutes later, we’re making our way to the truck, snow crunching under our boots, the cold biting at every exposed inch of skin. I clutch my bag tightly, feeling the heat of Griffin’s hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the snow.

I pause once more, looking back at the darkened house. “I wasn’t planning to freeze to death, you know,” I say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

Griffin’s expression softens, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Well, now you don’t have to prove that.”

By the time they’ve helped me into the truck, my teeth are chattering so hard I can barely speak, but I manage a tight, “Thanks.”

Griffin settles in beside me with a shake of his head, slamming the door shut against the wind.

“You don’t have to thank me, Sierra.”

“HI!” Jack shouts, waving a gloved hand over at me from his car seat, bundled up in a small snowsuit.

“Hey, there.”

“You’re going to stay over?”

“Yeah, buddy. Sierra’s going to stay at our house.” Griffin’s eyes dart upward to meet his son’s in the rear view mirror.

“YAY!”

As Griffin turns the truck around, guiding it back through the snow-covered streets, I lean back against the seat, watching my house fade into the swirling white behind us. I try to ignore the tension coiling in my chest, the way being near him again feels like reopening a wound that never fully healed.

“You’ve been managing at your parents place, huh?”

“Managing is one word for it, and it’s my house now.”

He nods slowly.

Wyatt lets out a low whistle. “Is that where you planned to spend Christmas?”

“It was the plan,” I say, in a clipped voice. “What else would I be doing?”

Cody scoffs, brushing snow off his beard. “Maybe not freezing your ass off alone in the house, for starters.”

Griffin raises an eyebrow, trying to keep the conversation casual but failing miserably. “So… how’s life been treating you?”

“Life is life. It’s going. Still running the bakery.”

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