My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

13. Clay

THIRTEEN

Clay

Fuck… fuck , this felt good.

I could feel the rough fabric of my coat under my palms as I pulled her closer, but not close enough to satisfy the gnawing hunger inside me. Her fingers gripped my shirt, crumpling the cotton in her delicate, yet assertive hold. The world outside this moment faded away; nothing else existed but us and the need clawing at my insides.

“Grace,” I breathed out, a mere inch from her lips.

“Shut up, Clay,” she shot back, her voice low and husky, laced with that familiar sarcasm which somehow now sounded like an invitation rather than a dismissal.

When our lips met again, it was like a dam had broken within me. This wasn't just some smoldering ember of attraction—it was a blazing inferno. I wanted more, so much more, and judging by the way she was tugging me closer, she was on the exact same page.

She broke away for a fraction of a second, catching her breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. Then, her fingers found their way into my hair, tugging slightly, sending a jolt straight down my spine. No gentle caress, no timid touch—it was all passion, all need.

And God, if it didn't drive me wild.

“Clay,” she said when we finally parted, her voice still breathless, “we really shouldn't be doing this.”

“Probably not,” I admitted, my hands finding the small of her back, unwilling to let go just yet. “But since when have we ever done the sensible thing?”

“Fair point,” Grace agreed, a hint of laughter in her words, despite the seriousness of our situation.

“Besides,” I added, my eyes locked onto hers, “I'm not quite finished with you yet.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” she challenged, though her smirk told me she was enjoying every second of this.

“Grace,” I said, my voice low, “I'm half a second from?—”

“Grace! Clay!” Mariah's voice interrupted us, shattering the moment. She stood at the open door of the inn, hands cupped around her mouth—and thank fuck, I didn’t think she saw us around the tree. “Get your butts back in here! They're about to judge the contest!”

Her intrusion was like a splash of cold water. The kiss ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving us both slightly dazed and disoriented. We were kids again, caught red-handed by a sibling who couldn't have had worse timing if she'd tried.

“Damn it, Mariah,” I muttered under my breath, but there was no anger behind it. Just the remnants of heat that hadn't quite dissipated.

Grace was blushing furiously, her cheeks a deep shade of crimson against her fair skin. For a moment, her eyes met mine, and I braced for the regret I was sure would follow.

Instead, she bit her lip, holding back a smile that threatened to break through. “We should, uh...” her gaze flickered to where Mariah waited impatiently, then back to me. “We should go inside.”

“Right.” My response was automatic, but my feet didn't move. I was still too caught up in her taste, her touch. “Inside. Yeah.”

She laughed then, soft and unexpected. It was light but laced with something else—a twist of irony maybe, or disbelief.

“Hey, why are you laughing?” I couldn't help but smile at her reaction, even if it didn't match the confusion tangling up inside me.

“Isn't it kind of messed up?” she said, still chuckling. “Sierra Hall lied and blew our lives wide open. What the hell?”

I nodded, a grin quirking my lips despite myself. “Yeah, it's wild. The whole damn thing.”

“Any idea why she did it?” Grace's fingers toyed with a lock of her brown hair, eyes searching mine for answers I didn't have.

“Beats me.” I shrugged, feeling the weight of everything unsaid between us. “We were all pretty screwed up after Michael's accident. Maybe we'll figure it out after we win this contest.”

“Winning? That'd be a first,” she quipped, a playful note in her voice that felt like a challenge.

“Hey, don't count us out just yet.” My reply came with a cocky edge, the competitive spark flaring to life between us once again. “You're with a professional, remember?”

“Professional, huh?” Grace's laughter was rich and full, the sound tumbling into the space between us. “I'll believe it when I see it, Hawthorne.”

We both chuckled as we stood up from our spot, brushing off any remnants of fallen leaves from our clothes. The air around us was crisp with the onset of evening, and the lights from the inn up ahead spilled warmth onto our path.

“Let's head back,” I suggested, tilting my head towards the glow of the inn. She nodded, and we started walking, the ground beneath our feet crunching softly.

It was a short walk, maybe fifty or so feet, but something flickered at the periphery of my vision. I turned sharply to my right and caught the tail end of movement—a shadow slipping behind one of the large oak trees lining the path.

“Did you see that?” I asked, peering into the falling snow, trying to make sense of what my eyes swore they witnessed.

“See what?” Grace followed my gaze, her body tensing up beside me.

“Someone's over there...” I trailed off, squinting to see through the growing darkness. My instincts, honed by years in the Marines, screamed that someone was watching us, lurking just out of sight.

“Come on, I want to know who wins,” she insisted, her hand gripping mine with unexpected strength. It was strange…there was something off about her reaction, but I couldn’t quite place it.

“Not us,” I muttered with a smirk, still scanning the tree-line, “Obviously.”

Her laugh was a quick burst of warm air in the cold night, and it pulled me back from the shadows to what mattered—her. Grace tugged at my hand, her fear evident in the urgency of her pull. I let her lead me away, but not without glancing back one last time, the unease settling heavily in my gut.

“Fine, let's go see this charade.”

We made our way inside, the noise of the holiday crowd washing over us as we entered. It was a mishmash of old carols and laughter, the smell of pine mingling with baked goods and mulled wine. Laura Bennet was standing at the front, a makeshift stage set up for the gingerbread contest announcements.

“Looks like we're just in time,” I whispered to Grace, nudging her with my elbow.

“Let's find a spot before they start throwing candy canes at the latecomers,” she quipped back, her eyes scanning the room for an opening.

We found a place near the back, close enough to hear but far enough to make a quick exit if needed. Children ran around, breaking off pieces of gingerbread from the display houses, their giggles bouncing off the walls. Parents mingled, sipping on eggnog, their voices a low hum against the backdrop of holiday tunes. There was an infectious joy in the air, one that almost made me forget the shadow I'd seen outside. Almost.

But then the inn doors swung open with a bang.

A chill wind swept in, carrying with it a sobering sense of dread that settled in my stomach like a lead weight.

He stood there, a silhouette framed by the doorway, the night's darkness clinging to him like a second skin—my father. His shoulders were hunched, and even from this distance, I could see the sway in his stance, the telltale sign he'd been drinking.

“Dammit,” I cursed under my breath, the festive atmosphere souring instantly.

Grace followed my gaze, her hand squeezing mine in silent support. “Clay?”

I didn't respond, instead focusing on the man who had just turned our evening upside down. He stumbled forward, his steps unsteady, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on me. There was a moment of recognition, a flash of regret passing over his face before it was quickly washed away by the next wave of drunken stupor.

“Shit,” I said quietly, my voice tense, “I've had too many to drive him home.”

Her grip tightened, her nails pressing into my skin. “What are you going to do?”

“Only thing I can.” I let out a resigned sigh. “Deal with it.”