My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

15. Clay

FIFTEEN

Clay

I steered the truck up the gravel driveway, the crunch under the tires a familiar sound in the otherwise silent dusk. It had been days since I'd seen Grace—not since the gingerbread debacle, since my drunk father showed up—and my stomach knotted up like I was about to step into enemy territory.

We’d kissed…and then she’d told me “maybe” when I asked to see her again.

I couldn’t make sense of it.

Mariah's face appeared at the kitchen window, her wave tentative but welcoming. I returned it with a nod, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. The engine cut with a final shudder, and I sat for a moment, gathering the courage to face what came next.

“Man up, Hawthorne,” I muttered to myself, pushing the door open.

Grace emerged from the house, her brown eyes scanning me like she might a crime scene—searching for clues, always searching.

“Clay,” she said, her voice clear and cool. No sarcasm this time, just a hint of something else I couldn't quite place.

“Grace.” I held out the truck keys between us.

“Runs better?” Her eyebrow arched, challenging.

“Like new.” I dropped the keys into her palm, our fingers brushing for a split second. A shock went through me, nothing like electricity—just flesh on flesh, simple and human.

She didn't move to go inside. Instead, she stood there…waiting for something. I read the hesitation in the set of her shoulders, the slight tilt of her head.

“Thanks for fixing it up,” she finally said, pocketing the keys.

“Least I could do.”

An awkward silence fell, heavy as the darkening sky above us.

“Want to take it for a spin?” I blurted, the words rushing out before I could second-guess myself. “Just to make sure everything's in order.”

“Are you asking me on a test drive?” A sly smile appeared on her lips, and I realized she was playing with me.

“Guess I am.”

“Fine, but I'm driving,” she declared, a spark lighting up those deep brown eyes that always seemed to see right through me.

“Deal.”

She slid into the driver's seat, her movements sure and practiced as she adjusted the mirrors. I climbed into the passenger side, inhaling the truck's familiar scent. I’d cleaned it up a bit, too; this was Grace’s mom’s old truck, and it hadn’t gotten much TLC since she passed. “Did you…” she started.

I looked over at her. “Did I do what?”

She frowned, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

Then she turned the key, the engine roaring to life beneath her touch, and we were off.

The roads stretched out before us, winding past Bear Claw Mountain and deeper into the boonies. Silence settled between us, comfortable yet charged.

“Want to head up to the old mine parking lot? See how the truck handles on those turns?” I asked, watching her profile as she drove.

“Clay, this isn't exactly a muscle car.” Her voice was dry, teasing.

“Doesn't mean it can't be fun,” I shrugged.

“Alright, let's see what she's got.” Grace pushed down on the accelerator, and the truck lurched forward.

The lot was a patchwork of cracked asphalt and scattered pebbles, a relic of our high school days. Grace didn't hesitate; she revved the engine and spun the wheel, the truck's tires screeching in protest as they left black marks on the ground. She laughed, a sound that seemed to ricochet off the enclosing pines and echo through the empty space.

“Show off,” I grumbled, but I couldn't help the grin tugging at my lips. The sight of her so alive, so fearless—it was infectious.

“Scared, Hawthorne?” she teased, glancing at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she lined up for another burnout.

“Never.”

But that was a lie. Back when we were kids, tearing through these lots in the dead of winter, she used to scare the hell out of me. She'd laugh like a banshee, pushing the limits of whatever junker we'd managed to get our hands on, while I white-knuckled the 'oh crap' handle.

“Then hold on,” she said, dropping the clutch and flooring it.

Memories flooded back—how she'd coax me into coming with her, just to hear me yelling over the roar of the engine. How she'd get that same wild-eyed look as she had now, right before making the truck dance across ice and gravel.

Damn…it felt good to remember those days, being young and reckless. Now, sitting beside her, I felt a pang for those simpler times.

Before life became complicated by tragedy and lies.

“Still got it, Gibson,” I admitted.

“Of course, I do,” Grace shot back with a smirk, but her focus shifted as the snow began to fall around us, thick and fast. “Looks like we're about to get a real test of these tires.”

The flakes swirled around us, blanketing the world in white. The truck's headlights only carved out a narrow tunnel of visibility.

“Grace,” I said, my voice suddenly serious, “the snow's coming down hard. We should head back.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” she quipped, but I noticed the way her hands gripped the wheel a bit tighter, her knuckles standing out against the backdrop of the steering wheel. We both knew how the weather could get out here; we’d survived more than a couple freak snow storms back when we were kids.

She swung the truck around in the parking lot, the wheels crunching over the rapidly accumulating snow, and started back towards the road that would lead us down the mountain.

“Half an hour,” I mumbled, checking the time on the dash. “We're half an hour from your place.”

“Only if you drive like a grandma.”

Well…okay then.

We were getting down this mountain, safely or not.

The descent was treacherous. Every switchback threatened to become a slide, every patch of shadow a potential sheet of ice. She drove confidently, but even Grace couldn't outmaneuver Mother Nature when she decided to throw a tantrum.

“Should have listened to you,” she muttered, more to herself than to me. “About heading back sooner.”

“Hey,” I said, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. “We'll make it.”

“Damn right, we will.”

“Just keep it steady,” I said, watching her navigate another curve that seemed to leap out at us from the blizzard.

The snow piled up, inch by inch…too fast. But Grace didn't flinch. She kept her eyes on the road, her hands steady on the wheel, while I kept watch for any hidden dangers lurking in the whiteout.

“Can you even see the road anymore?” My voice was steady, but I was starting to think we needed to pull off on the shoulder. These were whiteout conditions—and as someone who lived in the mountains, I wasn’t stupid enough to take risks.

“I’m fine,” Grace retorted, but her tone had lost some of its bite. She was squinting now, trying to make out the path through the thick swirls of snow.

A crackle from the radio broke through the silence, and a stern voice announced a storm warning for our area, advising all residents to seek immediate shelter.

Great, just what we needed.

“My cabin’s not far from here,” I said. “We could ride out the storm there.”

“We’re fine, Clay, I need to get back to Mariah?—”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence.

The truck lurched suddenly, a patch of ice hidden beneath the fresh powder. Grace's reflexes were good—she steered into the skid, kept us from spinning—but the relief was short-lived. I felt the tires lose grip again, this time more insistently.

“Shit!”

“Easy...easy...” I murmured, though whether it was for her benefit or mine, I wasn't sure.

But the slide didn't stop. We were going downhill, gravity pulling us faster than the tires could find traction. The world outside was a blur of white, the horizon lost somewhere beyond the storm.

At this rate, we would slide right into town…or off a cliff.

I had no way of knowing which one.