My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

12. Grace

TWELVE

Grace

This was a gingerbread disaster.

I couldn't help it—the sight of our gingerbread house, slumping to one side like a drunken sailor, sent me into another fit of giggles. Clay sat beside me, his large hands fumbling with the icing bag as he tried to shore up the sagging walls, but it was no use. The thing was a lost cause.

"Looks like a hurricane hit Candy Land," I snorted, wiping tears from my eyes.

"More like a Grace-nado," Clay shot back, a smirk on his lips that made his blue eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Hey, you were the architect here, mountain man. I just did the landscaping," I said, gesturing to the sad-looking gumdrop bushes that were now part of the wreckage.

Just then, Laura Bennet's shadow loomed over us, her arms crossed and a scowl etched into her features. She thrust a cup of coffee into each of our hands.

"Outside. Now," she commanded. "This is supposed to be family-friendly, and you two are causing a scene."

"Sorry, Laura," I mumbled, still chuckling as Clay and I scooped up our coffees and shuffled toward the door. He held it open for me, and we stepped out into the crisp winter air, leaving behind the disapproving gaze of Silver Ridge's self-appointed moral compass.

"Feels like high school all over again, getting kicked out of the party," Clay said, shooting me a grin that was all mischief.

"Except this time, we're not hiding bottles of cheap beer under our coats," I retorted, breathing in the cold that sobered me up a notch.

"Those were the days, huh?" Clay's voice had softened, and he looked at me with something that might've been nostalgia if I didn't know any better.

We stood there for a moment, the night wrapping around us, our breath pluming into the darkness. The laughter had faded, replaced by the comfortable silence of old friends—or maybe something more.

"Remember when we tried to sled down Miller's Hill on trash can lids?" I said, sitting down in a clear spot against the rough bark of a tree out in the yard. The snow was sifting down, blanketing everything in soft white.

Clay chuckled, sitting down next to me, his breath visible in the air. "Yeah, and you crashed into that snowbank. Came out looking like a yeti."

I snorted at the memory. "And you weren't any better. Mr. 'I grew up in the mountains' couldn't even steer clear of a tree."

"Hey, that tree came out of nowhere," he defended himself with a smirk.

We went on like that for a while, swapping tales of our teenage recklessness, the warmth from the coffee seeping into our hands. It was easy, comfortable, and it almost felt like the years hadn't put distance between us.

Then, as the laughter died down, I found my courage waning—a little liquid bravery leaving me thanks to the coffee—and I murmured, "I wish things had ended differently, you know?"

Clay's face, illuminated by the soft glow of the inn's lights spilling out into the yard, registered surprise. "What do you mean?"

I bit my lip, the pain of old wounds flaring up. "You abandoned me," I whispered, the words tumbling out like shards of glass from my mouth. "We had all these plans to leave Silver Ridge together, to start our lives, to go on adventures..." My head shook almost imperceptibly, trying to dislodge the memories. "And then you see me in my prom dress, a night we both had looked forward to for forever, and you tell me you're done with me. You don't want me." The tightness in my throat threatened to cut off my voice, betraying the tears I fought so hard to keep at bay. "I still don't understand what I did wrong."

Clay's face transformed, his features hardening as if the cold had gotten to him. His eyes were like chips of ice boring into me. "You cheated on me, Grace."

"What?" I gasped, confusion lancing through the numbness brought on by the alcohol and the cold. "What the hell are you talking about?"

His jaw clenched and unclenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Don't play dumb. Sierra Hall told me that when everything went to shit, you started seeing some guy from a couple towns over. You two were close, and I figured she wouldn't lie about something like that."

"Sierra?" My mind raced, trying to bridge the gap between reality and the lie that had apparently dismantled my life. "Why would you even?—"

"After Michael's accident," he continued, his anger rising, "I wasn't there for you. Emotionally or anything else. I was a wreck, Grace. And I thought...I thought you needed someone who could be."

My heart pounded against my ribcage, each beat echoing the pain and confusion of past and present. "You believed her, just like that? Without even asking me?"

"Yeah, I did," he admitted, and there was a raw edge to his voice now. He pulled his gaze back to mine, and it felt like we were the only two people in the world. "I guess part of me wanted an out because I couldn't handle my own grief. It was easier to believe Sierra than to face what was happening between us."

"Clay..." the word was a whisper, barely audible above the soft sound of falling snow around us.

He ran a hand through his hair, his movements sharp with frustration. "I should have talked to you about it. Back then. But I didn't, and it's been eating at me ever since."

"Talked to me? You threw everything away on a damn rumor!" My voice was shaking, but whether from cold or emotion, I couldn't tell.

"Damn it, Grace, I know! Okay? I screwed up!" His voice broke the heavy silence that had settled around us.

We both fell silent, the weight of years and misunderstandings pressing down on us. The snow kept falling, oblivious to the human drama unfolding beneath the tree.

"Sierra, of all people." I scoffed, my breath forming clouds in the chilly air. "I never cheated on you. That's not me and you know it."

He looked away, his jaw tense. "I thought I knew a lot of things back then."

"It's like she flipped a switch after graduation," I said, ignoring the sting of betrayal that flared anew with every word. "Sierra just...cut me off. One day we were best friends and the next..."

"Next what?" His voice was softer now, curiosity lacing through the skepticism.

"Nothing. Radio silence. " I pulled my knees up to my chest, hugging them tight. "Saw her at the Christmas kickoff. You'd think we were strangers."

"Grace, I..." he started, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

"Whatever," I muttered, shaking my head. "It's history now. Can't change it."

We both went silent, looking down at the town…and the lake. That lake looked so picturesque now, but it was where the worst tragedy of Clay’s life had happened.

His brother’s death.

"God, we were just kids," I whispered, hugging my knees tighter as the past loomed below us.

"Kids who thought they had forever," Clay murmured.

A shiver racked my body then, from more than just the cold. The warmth from the bustling inn seemed like a distant memory now, replaced by the biting chill of the night air.

"Here." Before I could protest, Clay was shrugging off his coat and draping it over my shoulders. His fingers brushed my neck as he adjusted the heavy fabric around me, sending an involuntary shiver through my body that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Thanks," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. The scent of his cologne enveloped me, a mix of pine and something undeniably Clay. It felt like him—like home—and for a moment, I was back in high school, wrapped up in the safety and warmth of our old dreams.

I felt my lips, numb and tingly, either a side effect of the spiked hot chocolate or the winter's kiss, and I brushed my fingers over them absently. His eyes followed the movement, dropping to my mouth.

My heart did a little hopscotch in my chest.

"I never forgot about you, Clay Hawthorne,” I murmured. “Not when every damn love song on the radio seemed to be about us. Not when I sat through those dreary college lectures wondering what if?—"

"Grace—" he cut in, but I plowed ahead, a dam breaking inside me after all these years.

"Let me finish. I always wondered, you know? What would our lives have been like if we'd gone off to Boston together like we planned?" My breath steamed in the frigid air, mingling with his as we sat there, wrapped up in memories and what-ifs.

"Would've been something," he managed, voice rough with emotions he was usually so good at hiding. But then, wasn't that our thing? Hiding how we really felt until it was too late?

"Would've been everything," I corrected him softly, letting out a long, shaky breath that carried away some of the weight I'd been carrying since we were eighteen and full of nothing but hope.

"Grace..." he repeated, this time with a note of something else—regret maybe, or the beginnings of understanding. Our past was a tangled mess, but sitting here now, it felt like we might finally start pulling at the knots.

"Would've been everything," I said again, the words hanging between us like a challenge he couldn't ignore.

"Damn it, Grace." His voice was low and rough, the kind of sound that used to make my knees weak.

And maybe it still did because when he leaned in, I didn't pull away.

Not an inch.

And then I was kissing him, and he was kissing me…and after more than a decade, everything was right with the world again.