Page 13 of Secret Santas and Holiday Dances

She took his hand. “Name’s Charlotte Scott. Nice to meet you, Liam.”

Chapter 7

Grace lived in the upstairs studio of an old barn on Emma Lee Bradford’s property. The space was perfect for her needs, and Emma, an uber-successful wedding blogger and wonderful landlord, charged Grace next to nothing. She’d lucked into the place when she’d moved to town. Emma needed a renter, and because Jessie helped Emma film for her Vlog, she’d been able to introduce them.

The only complaint Grace had was that it often felt isolating—the property was a good fifteen-minute drive from town, and aside from Emma and her father, there weren’t many people around. Sometimes Grace liked that. Other times, like when her mind wouldn’t turn off, she hated it.

Grace lay in her bed, covers pushed to the side, staring at the clock on her milk crate nightstand. The red digits jumped from five fourteen to five fifteen. Fifteen more minutes and her alarm would go off and she could get ready for the day. She hadn’t slept well all weekend, and last night had been the worst, her mind jumping from regret and guilt for not going to the barn dance to thoughts of Charlotte and the anxiety and guilt that came with that. She hadn’t heard from Liam all weekend. He normally texted her several times on off-work days. She hoped he wasn’t mad at her. She hadn’t heard from Charlotte either, even though she’d texted and calledherrepeatedly. Maybe she changed her mind about coming.

She also worried about her Secret Santa plans. As soon as Charlotte arrived, if she came at all, getting her gifts out to her friends would be impossible.

Her mother would demand every spare moment of her time while here. She would want Grace to go everywhere she went and in her downtime, she would send Grace on errands. Grace would have to enlist Jessie’s help or she’d never get her gifts out—she guessed it was a good thing Jessie found her out. But it wouldn’t be a good thing if her mother found out.

Only two scenarios could come from that, and Grace didn’t like either: she’d either, one, demand Grace drop it to spend time with her, or, two, brag to everyone what Grace’s was doing and stick Grace right where she didn’t want or have business being: in the spotlight.

She rolled to her back and stared at the high-beam ceiling, letting out a long sigh. This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t be losing sleep over this. Until her mother was standing in front of her, it would be smart to assume she wasn’t coming. And if she came, Aunt Sophie and Aunt Clara would surely keep Charlotte busy. They hadn’t seen their little sister in six years—the last summer Grace had spent in Harvest Ranch until she moved here.

Grace just needed to be more positive. Everything would work out okay.

Her alarm went off, and she sat up, taking a deep sigh. She could do this. She could.

She got up, intentionally avoiding looking toward her winter scene painting across the loft in her living room area. She didn’t need another thing occupying her thoughts right now—especially not how she’d failed to even get David to agree to look at the piece she’d spent weeks on.

Besides, it was Monday. She had every reason to be happy. Today was the start of a new week, a clean slate for going over her plans to sell more of Davina’s work, to make lists of other artists who might be interested in showcasing their work at Life on Canvas, and to reorganize the gallery. Plus, she was having lunch with Liam today.

It didn’t get much better than that.

* * *

Grace made an early morning Secret Santa delivery to one of the apartments on a street near downtown. She left gifts for Carol, a mom of two who worked at the laundromat on the far side of the dollar store on Main. Carol had moved to town around the same time as Grace after a messy divorce. She barely made enough at the laundromat to pay rent, buy food, and other essentials for her kids and herself, and she received zero child support. Carol had offhandedly mentioned that Christmas was going to be scarce, so Grace had gotten to work figuring out gifts for her and her kids.

She left a large box at her door with the presents in it, and just hoped it’d be enough to make for a happy Christmas for the little girls. She’d even stuffed stockings with candy, toothpaste and brushes, shampoo and conditioners, and other personal hygiene items, a wreath for their door, and a large bag of peppermint buttermints.

Once she delivered the gifts, Grace drove back out to her loft apartment, got showered, dressed and ready for the day, and headed to work—no one the wiser of her extracurricular activities . . . except for maybe Liam.

She’d worry about that later. She had a busy day ahead of her.

Pushing through the door to Life on Canvas, a flirty chuckle that Grace would know anywhere, found her ears and sent chills down her spine more than the cold winter air had before she saw its source. Her gaze whipped up and across the gallery, to the back of the building where David’s office stood.

“Oh, David,” her mother said, laughing, “you’re too much.”

Grace’s heart leaped to her throat, blocking it, and her eyes went wide. Charlotte sat on the edge of David’s desk that paralleled the door. She wore a red skirt, white sweater, a thin red belt over the top of her sweater, and red heels. She’d pulled her red locks back and into a twist, and wore bright red lipstick. This was a prowling look—Grace knew it well.

Charlotte leaned across the desk toward David, and Grace, in shock, dropped her purse. Her keys, a few buttermints, pencils, and her lucky eraser clattered and scattered over the floor. Charlotte and David turned to see what had happened as Grace squatted to retrieve her items.

“Gracie!” Charlotte was out of the office and heading to her in fluid movements that reminded Grace of ballet dancers.

Grace shoved her things in her bag and jumped to her feet just as Charlotte reached her and wrapped her arms around Grace’s shoulders. She kissed her on her right cheek and then her left, then pulled back and looked her up and down.

Grace fidgeted under her scrutiny.

“Well, look at you,” Charlotte said, scrunching her brow as she focused on Grace’s clothes. “Is that skirt new?”

Grace stared down at her black pencil skirt—it was nothing remarkable or plain. Just a nice, work skirt.

Charlotte hummed deep in her throat. “Well, never mind that.”

“Mother, what are you doing here?”

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