Page 138 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

Not when I stood poolside sipping warm champagne, making conversation with a guy who called himself a “Crypto Manifestation Strategist.”

Not when I posted my fourth story of the night with a boomerang of the fake snow and a tag that said#blessed.

I only realized I was lonely now.

Now, surrounded by mismatched plates and the sound of Lucy humming as she spooned mashed potatoes onto everyone’s dish like a mom who couldn’t help herself.

Now, with Beckett snorting at Asher’s apron, and Garrett refilling cider without asking, his hand brushing my shoulder every time he passed.

Now, in this creaky, overstuffed, slightly drafty mountain cabin, where nothing was curated but everything was real.

The noise wrapped around me like a blanket I didn’t know I’d been cold without.

Lucy dropped into the seat beside me and nudged her knee against mine. “You having fun?”

I glanced around the room. At Garrett, quietly refilling water glasses with a seriousness that made my heart ache.

At Asher, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder like a chef in a sitcom. At Beckett, who pretended to be aloof but made sure the sweet potatoes didn’t burn when no one else was looking.

And I nodded. “Yeah. I really am.”

“Good,” she said, grinning. “Now eat before Asher guilt-trips us with his ‘sacrifices in the name of gastronomy.’”

We all piled into the mismatched chairs and benches around the table, shoulders brushing, elbows bumping, a loud chorus of overlapping voices blessing the meal or mocking Asher. Hard to say.

Beckett raised his glass without ceremony. “To the weirdos we didn’t choose but got stuck with anyway.”

“Speak for yourself,” Asher said, lifting his. “I’d choose all of you again. Even if I have to listen to Beckett insult my cranberry game.”

Lucy grinned. “To families, and besties too!”

Garrett’s voice was quiet but steady as he added, “To peace. And second chances.”

And because I wasn’t sure I could speak without crying, I lifted my glass, my throat thick with something good. Something whole.

As the meal began, so did the chaos.

Beckett somehow managed to start a debate about whether Die Hard was a Christmas movieandsteal half the sweet rolls from my plate. Asher began narrating his culinary process like a Food Network star.

Garrett grumbled about “proper carving technique” while Lucy and I nearly cried laughing over a potato that looked vaguely like a celebrity.

I pressed a hand to my belly, instinctively.

Garrett’s eyes found mine across the table.

No one else noticed. Not yet. But we did.

And maybe we didn’t have everything figured out, not the secrets, or the future, or even how to tell Lucy, but this time, I wasn’t afraid.

Not of being seen. Not of being loved.

And especially not of what came next.

Because this Christmas, in this messy little cabin with cinnamon in the air and laughter echoing off the walls, I wasn’t alone.

I was home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

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