My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

8. Grace

EIGHT

Grace

I was starting to think Silver Ridge was going a little too hard on Christmas.

I watched Mariah's hands dive into the closet like a kid on Christmas morning, tossing aside my everyday wear with a fervor. “Come on, there has to be something in here that screams 'party',” she insisted, her voice muffled by the fabric jungle.

I was only half-listening as I sat on the edge of my bed, fiddling with the camera lens cap. “You know I wouldn’t be interested in this at all if I wasn’t taking photos,” I muttered. “I can seriously just wear jeans and a t-shirt, we’re only going to Millie’s?—”

“Here!” Mariah emerged triumphant, a sparkly black skirt and red silk top in hand. She dangled them before me, her grin wide. “How about this?”

I glanced up at the outfit and shook my head instantly. “No way. That's an invitation for trouble.”

“Trouble, or fun?” Mariah countered.

“Mariah, I'm not going fishing for stares.”

“Come on, live a little,” she nudged, her tone playful yet insistent. But I knew better than to bite the bait—I wasn't about to give anyone the satisfaction, especially in something that left little to the imagination.

“But look how it sparkles,” she said, holding up the skirt. She pressed it under her belly and then started shimmying, oohing and aahing like it was the most magical thing she’d ever seen.

“Stop dancing around and give that here,” I chided, snatching the skirt out of Mariah’s hand. “You look ridiculous.”

“Exactly. Clay won't be able to stop staring at you. Plus…somebody should wear it since I'm stuck with maternity clothes.”

“First off, you have a ton of cute maternity clothes,” I said. “And second, I do not want Clay Hawthorne’s attention.”

“Fine, fine…how about this one then?” Mariah said, then tossed a dark green dress at me. It was decent, ended just above the knee—conservative enough not to raise eyebrows but with a neckline that dipped low enough to keep things interesting.

“Better,” I admitted, running my hands along the soft fabric. “It'll have to do.”

“Clay won't know what hit him,” Mariah chuckled, helping me zip up at the back.

“Hey, it's not for him.”

“Sure, Grace,” Mariah teased, her eyebrow cocking in disbelief.

“Let's just get this over with,” I said, grabbing my camera from the dresser. Photography was my shield tonight; behind the lens, I could hide from probing eyes and lingering ghosts of the past.

“Truck keys?” Mariah asked, slipping on her coat.

“Got 'em.” I patted my pocket, feeling the familiar jangle of metal. We headed out into the chilly evening air, our breaths creating little clouds of fog as we walked toward the old truck.

The moment I stepped into Millie's, it was like diving headfirst into a sea of flannel and Christmas sweaters. The place buzzed with conversation, laughter spilling over from every corner, mingling with the twangs of Christmas country music and the clinks of glasses. Dodging elbows and excusing myself past clusters of people I vaguely recognized, I tried to make myself small, unobtrusive.

“Grace Gibson? Haven't seen you around these parts in ages!” A burly man with a peppered beard blocked my path, his grin as wide as the doorway.

“Hey, Bill,” I said, plastering on a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, just visiting.”

“Still writing those fancy articles for the big city papers?” he asked, beer sloshing precariously close to the rim of his glass.

“Something like that.” I edged away, wanting to blend in with the crowd…

…only to find myself face to face with someone I never wanted to see.

Sierra Hall—once one of my best friends, and the girl who blamed me and Clay for her boyfriend’s death. Clay’s brother’s death.

She stared at me like she’d seen a ghost, three little kids around her. I’d seen through social media that she’d gotten married a couple years after high school and had been popping out babies ever since. She was one of the biggest reasons I’d left Silver Ridge; I couldn’t take the guilt.

“Grace?” she said. “I um…I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Sierra.” I nodded, keeping it short. “Kids are growing fast.”

“Yep.” Her reply was clipped, and she pulled her children closer, as if my presence might taint them with some unseen grime.

“Right, well…Merry Christmas,” I said, already turning.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” she tossed over her shoulder, steering her brood away from me and disappearing into the crowd.

I exhaled slowly, letting the tension flow out with the breath I'd been holding since I saw her face. It wasn't just the memory of Mike that made encounters with Sierra feel like navigating a minefield. It was everything left unsaid.

All that pain.

I thought I was done with awkward collisions when I bumped into something solid, a wall of flannel and muscle that had my camera swinging from my neck. I looked up, ready to unload a sarcastic apology when the words died in my throat.

Clay Hawthorne stood there, looking like he'd walked straight out of some rugged outdoorsman catalog…and damn him, he took the breath right out of my lungs.

“Grace,” he said, voice rough as gravel, but his eyes, those damn blues, they were the same. They still did things to me they had no right to do.

“Clay,” I managed, voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. “You again.”

“Could say the same for you. Seem to run into you everywhere I go.” He folded his arms across his chest, and I caught sight of the tattoo peeking from under his sleeve—stars and stripes, probably from the military.

“Well, it’s a small town, and I needed photos for the paper.” I held up my camera. “What's your excuse?”

“Betty invited me.” His gaze flicked away for a second, a shadow passing over his features so quickly I might've imagined it.

“Right. Of course she did.” I couldn't stop the snark; it was my default setting with him, safer than whatever this weird pull was that I was feeling.

“Still got that sharp tongue, I see,” he shot back, a hint of the old Clay surfacing.

“Keeps me from saying yes to things I should say no to.”

Like him, years ago. But we didn't talk about that. Not anymore.

“Shouldn't you be taking pictures or something?” He gestured to my camera, and I lifted it, snapping a shot of the decorations above us. A desperate attempt to shift focus from the tension sparking between us.

“What, you don’t want a photo of me?” he taunted.

“Look, I just want to?—”

Someone suddenly stepped up at our side, thrusting drinks into both of our hands. I looked over to find Kat Martin—a friend of Mariah’s from high school—eyeing us. “Drink up and play nice,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “It's Christmas, not a boxing match.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, taking a tentative sip. The punch was sweet, spiked, and hit just the right spot.

“Cheers,” Clay grunted, his own drink held loosely as if it were an afterthought rather than a peace offering.

Before things could spiral into another round of barbed comments, the room hushed. Betty stood on her little makeshift stage, her voice carrying effortlessly. “Welcome, everyone, to our annual Christmas Kick Off Party!”

Everyone cheered, and the tension between us seemed to ebb away, swallowed by the wave of holiday spirit. I heard something pop from over by the bar and I snapped my head toward it, startled—but it was just a bottle of champagne, courtesy of Betty’s husband Sam.

“Everything okay?” Clay's voice had changed, quiet and concerned. He leaned closer, his height allowing him to speak directly into my ear without much effort. I fought the urge to lean into the warmth of him.

“Fine,” I shot back too quickly, wishing my heart would stop racing. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“Because you look like you're about to bolt for the nearest exit.”

“Observant, aren't we?” I forced a laugh, hoping it sounded convincing. “Maybe I just want to escape your company.”

“I wanted to ask about the other day…you running away from something,” he said, and my heart plummeted right into my stomach. “Maybe it’s none of my business?—”

“Right,” I mumbled, eyeing Clay's concerned expression. “You're right.”

“About you being in trouble?” His tone had shifted from casual to something far more urgent, his brows knitting together in a frown that creased his freckled forehead.

For a split second, the floodgates nearly burst open. My lips parted, words teetering on the brink of confession. But I snapped them shut just as quickly. “No, you’re right—this isn't your business. I'm fine.”

He held my gaze for a moment longer before nodding, the lines around his eyes softening with an unreadable emotion. Turning away, I scanned the crowd for Mariah, finding her laughing with some friends by the punch bowl.

“Mariah,” I called out as I approached, keeping my voice steady despite the jittery sensation in my gut. “I can't do this. It's too much. I want to leave.”

She glanced up, surprise etched on her face. “Now? But we just got here, Grace.”

“Look, I just…” I couldn't find the words to explain the chaos swirling inside me—my fear, the constant looking over my shoulder, the confusing tangle of emotions that Clay's proximity stirred up.

“Fine, stay if you want. But I need to get out of here.” I was already backing away, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

“Grace, wait!” Mariah reached out but I was already lost in the sea of people, dodging conversations and sidestepping couples swaying to the music that floated above the chatter.

“Grace, really?” She caught up to me at the door, her own expression a cocktail of concern and frustration.

“Sorry, Mare. You enjoy yourself. Kat can bring you home, right?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, relenting. “But call me when you're home safe, yeah?”

“Will do.” I gave her a tight smile and slipped out into the cool night air, leaving the warmth of Millie's—and Clay—behind.

The cold from the truck's metal handle bit into my fingers as I yanked the door open. The familiar musty scent of the old upholstery greeted me, a contrast to the festive atmosphere I'd just escaped from. I slid into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary.

“Come on, you piece of junk,” I muttered, jamming the key into the ignition and giving it a rough twist. The engine coughed, sputtered, and fell silent. I punched the steering wheel, cursing under my breath. “Seriously?”

I tried again, holding my breath, but the only sound was the mocking click of failure. Great. Alone, in the dark, in a dead truck. My heart kicked up its pace, a reminder of that all-too-familiar feeling of vulnerability.

My only choice was to go back to the party.

And now, out here in the dark…I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to get out. Because that familiar feeling was crawling up my spine again, the unshakeable sensation that I was being watched. I reached over to grab my phone, wishing I had a taser or even a gun?—

Then, knock knock.

Someone was at my window.

And whoever it was, they had me at their mercy.