My Secret Santa Daddies (Silver Ridge Christmas)

8. Griffin

8

GRIFFIN

I sit in the corner of Millie’s Diner, Jack nestled against me, munching on a sugar cookie that’s already crumbling into a mess on his lap.

My eyes keep drifting to Sierra as she stands near the front of the diner, clutching that red hat on the small stage. Her shoulders are stiff, her gaze avoiding mine at all costs. She’s always had that wall, but it feels even higher now, thicker, like all the years apart have only solidified the barrier between us.

It’s been years since that messy breakup in college, but it still feels like yesterday sometimes. The regret, the things left unsaid, the stupid decisions we made.

Her blonde hair, now longer and a wavier than I remember, cascades around her shoulders, catching the warm glow of the diner’s Christmas lights.

That intense, ice blue stare that used to stop me dead in my tracks, are sharper now. Colder maybe, but I still catch glimpses of warmth behind them—glimpses of the girl I used to know, before life got complicated and we lost ourselves in the chaos of it all.

The crowd murmurs softly as the other townsfolk take their turns at the hat, the excitement of the annual Secret Santa drawing swirling through the air. It’s supposed to be lighthearted, and fun, but all I can feel is the weight of Sierra’s presence across the room. The weight of everything we left unsaid.

I shift in my seat, trying to focus on the other faces around the diner, the people I grew up with. They’re the ones who keep this town ticking. The ones who still make Silver Ridge feel like home, even after I’ve spent years running from it.

“What does this mean, Dad?” Jack asks, his voice muffled by the crumbs in his mouth.

“It’s a Secret Santa thing, buddy. We each draw a name and then we gotta buy that person a present without them knowing it’s from us. The idea is to find out what they've always wanted.”

Gregory Treeve, the town’s mayor, steps up next, his large frame casting a shadow over the counter as he pulls a name from the hat. His grin is wide as he tucks the slip of paper into his pocket, glancing around the room with that warm, familiar look he always has, like he’s everyone's favorite uncle. No doubt he’s already planning some elaborate gift for whoever’s name he pulled.

Then there’s Jake "The Snake" O'Hara, Silver Ridge’s local rodeo star, swaggering up to the hat like he owns the place. He pulls a name, a cocky grin on his face, and slips it into his pocket with a wink to whoever’s watching. Knowing Jake, whoever gets him as their Secret Santa is probably in for something wild and unexpected.

Marty Wilson, the theater owner, is next. He’s got that excited energy about him, practically bouncing on his toes as he pulls a name from the hat. He loves this stuff—the lights, the cheer, the traditions. Silver Ridge wouldn’t be the same without people like Marty keeping the magic alive.

One by one, the townsfolk move forward, pulling names and tucking them into their pockets.

It’s like a roll call of the town’s heartbeat—everyone stepping forward, playing their part in the tradition that keeps Silver Ridge together, year after year.

But no matter how much I try to focus on them, my attention keeps snapping back to Sierra.

She’s standing quietly, holding the Santa hat for everyone to step forward and draw their secret name. Wyatt and Cody go up there next.

But when Betty motions for me to come up, my heart pounds in my chest. I give Jack a reassuring smile and make my way through the crowd, my steps heavy against the floor.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s go together.”

As I approach, Sierra’s eyes meet mine again, and for a brief moment, it’s just the two of us, the weight of our past and all the unsaid words swirling around us. The air feels charged, electric, like it did the night we first kissed at a party.

I take the hat from her trembling hands, and our fingers brush, sending a jolt of electricity through me. I look down at the folded slip of paper in my hand, my heart pounding in my chest as I recognize her familiar handwriting.

Sierra Harper .

Shit.

“What does it say?” Jack shouts.

“It’s a secret, buddy. I’ll tell you later.”

I stuff the paper in my pocket, trying to school my expression into something resembling indifference.

“You drawing my name again, Griffin?” Jake "The Snake" O'Hara calls out from the crowd, a smirk on his face. The room erupts into laughter, but I can still feel Sierra’s eyes boring into me.

“You wish, Jake.”

I sit back down, my mind racing, but I force a smile for Jack. He’s still staring up at me, waiting for some hint of who I drew, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling him. Not yet. Not until I can wrap my head around the fact that I pulled Sierra Bennet’s name out of the hat.

Of all the people in this room, it had to be her.

She’s doing her best to look unaffected, but I know her better than that. I know she felt it too—the charge between us when our fingers brushed.

That little spark.

The same one I’ve been trying to forget for years.

The crowd is still buzzing with excitement, people chatting and laughing as they head back to their seats, but I can’t focus on any of it.

It’s only her. The way her hair caught the light, the tightness in her jaw, the way she had looked at me, like she was bracing for something to happen—like she didn’t know what it was, but she knew it would hurt.

It was that same look she had given me the night we broke up, the night I told her it wasn’t going to work between us. And that hurt she’s been carrying around with her? It’s still there, simmering beneath the surface.

Everyone erupts into shouts and laughter, when Hank suddenly bursts through the door dressed as Santa Clause. Ranger Lisa Morales is at his side in a bright blue elf costume.

Jack scrambles away from me in wild desperation to be one of the first in line. Sierra sets the empty hat down and quickly gets off the stage.

I steal one more glance her way. She’s deep in conversation with Susan Harper now, nodding along to whatever her friend is saying, but her gaze flicks toward me, just for a second. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the rest of the diner fades away and it’s just me and her.

And all the mistakes I made.

But then she looks away, her expression unreadable, and the connection is gone, replaced by the noise and chatter of Silver Ridge’s holiday cheer.

Jack jumps onto Hank’s lap, staring at him with extreme skepticism. But even then, even with Jack’s laughter filling the air, I can feel the pull of Sierra across the room.

And now I’ve got her name. Her damn name.

What am I supposed to give her? What does she even want from me, after everything?

A clean break, probably. The same one she’s been trying to get since we walked away from each other all those years ago. She had liked me far less when I was dating Anna. It was even worse after we got married. She used to tell me time and time again that I worked too much and never made enough time for my wife.

She was right.

But I know better now. Losing Anna had forced me to change everything.

And I also know that whatever it was between us, it’s not over. Not yet.

I glance over my shoulder at her one more time, catching her mid laugh as Susan says something that pulls a smile out of her. It’s not a big smile, not the kind she used to give me, but it’s something.

“Man, this Secret Santa thing is something else,” Cody says, shaking his head in amusement. He stops beside me, leaning on the edge of the table.

Jack tugs on Hank Garrison’s fake beard, but the thing is glued on tight.

“You should’ve seen Jake O’Hara’s face when he pulled his ticket. Guy looked like someone just told him he had to eat coal for Christmas.”

“Knowing Jake, he’ll probably get whoever something completely ridiculous,” I mutter.

Cody pulls out a bottle of beer. He pops the cap off with a quick flick of his thumb and hands it to me with a grin. “Grabbed this for you.”

I take it readily, more than happy for something to take the edge off. The cold bottle feels solid in my hand, grounding me for a second, and I take a long, deep pull, letting the cool bitterness of the beer ease some of the tension coiled in my chest.

Though I wish it were something stronger.

Wyatt leans against the table, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the diner. He’s always been the more observant one—he’s probably already pieced together what’s going on. “So, who’d you pull?”

“It’s a secret, remember?”

“Uh-huh, and I’m Santa Claus.”

“No. Hank Garrison is,” Cody chuckles.

“Come on, man. You can tell us.”

“Hell no. My lips are sealed.” I shake my already empty beer bottle. “Where’d you get the beer at?”

“Betty serves alcohol now.”

“Since when?”

“Since she realized she could make more money off of us desperate fools,” Cody interjects, laughing.

Wyatt shrugs and turns to Cody. “Well, you gonna tell us who you got, or do we have to play twenty questions all night?”

“No. No. Griffin made it clear. We aren’t sharing names.”

“Yeah, because you don’t want us to know that you drew Mrs. Higgins, the librarian,” I tease.

“Hey, I resent that,” Cody huffs. “Mrs. Higgins has got it going on under those glasses.”

I roll my eyes and head to where there’s more beer. “Whatever you say, man. Whatever you say.”

“I wonder who Sierra got,” Wyatt says, glancing over at her. She’s still talking to Susan near the punch bowl and seems a little more relaxed.

“I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care,” I lie, my heart pounding a little bit faster.

“Right. Uh-huh,” Wyatt drawls. “Just look at us single fools out here, still waiting for our shot.”

Cody nudges him in the ribs. “Cut it out, Romeo. We’re supposed to be brooding bachelors together.”

“Says you and your secret crush on Ms. Higgins,” Wyatt retorts with a wink.

“Dude. It was a joke.”

I down the second beer faster than I should, and it goes straight to my head. The buzz is welcome at first, dulling the sharp edge of anxiety that’s been gnawing at me since I pulled Sierra’s name from that hat. But as the night wears on and I crack open a third, I can feel myself slipping into that old familiar space where everything feels too raw and too exposed.

I’m still sitting there, letting Cody and Wyatt’s banter swirl around me like background noise, but I can’t stop thinking about Sierra. Her laugh echoes in my ears even though I’m not close enough to hear it anymore. Every time I glance over at her, all I can think about is that last fight we had, and how I let her walk away. How I stood there, watching her leave, knowing I’d messed it all up but feeling too damn proud to stop her.

It was right after Anna’s funeral, in the parking lot of the funeral home.

She had told me she hoped to spend the rest of her life never seeing me again.

By the time I reach for my fourth beer, the buzz has turned into a hum of restlessness.

I need to move, do something. Get away from the weight pressing down on me.

“You ok, man?” Cody’s voice cuts through the haze, and I realize I’ve been sitting quietly for too long. He’s watching me closely, his usual easy grin replaced by a look of mild concern. “You’re pounding those back like it’s your job.”

I wave him off. “I’m fine.” I grab a fifth.

Wyatt narrows his eyes, clearly not buying it. “Yeah, you seem real fine.”

I shrug, tipping the bottle back and draining the last of it. “Just enjoying the festivities.”

I feel unsteady on my feet, the alcohol making everything just a little too wobbly, a little too loose. Still, I’m not ready to sit back down. Not with everything swimming in my head.

“Where you going?” Wyatt asks, watching me closely.

“Getting some air,” I mutter, but the truth is, I’m not entirely sure where I’m headed.

I weave my way through the diner, dodging familiar faces and the occasional handshake from people who seem way too happy to see me. Everyone’s in a good mood, full of holiday cheer, and I feel like the odd one out—stuck in my own head, in my own mess.

And then I see her. Sierra. She’s standing near the dessert table, still talking to Susan, a faint smile tugging at her lips. That smile—that damn smile that used to make me forget everything else—flickers something inside me, something I’m not ready to face.

Without thinking, I make a beeline for her. The outside can wait. I’m talking to her tonight.

“Sierra,” I call out, my voice louder than I meant it to be.

She turns, her eyes widening slightly when she sees me, and I can tell from the way her smile falters that this is the last thing she wants. But it’s too late now. I’m already here, standing in front of her.

“Hey, Griffin…”

“Is there a reason you’ve been avoiding me all night?”

The words are out before I can stop them, and I curse myself. It’s one thing to think about it, but another to say it out loud. Especially when half of Silver Ridge is within earshot.

Sierra glances around, her cheeks flushing. “Griffin, not here, okay?”

“No,” I say, swaying on my feet slightly, still unsteady from the beer. “I want to know why you won’t even look at me.”

“Jesus, Griffin.”

“What? It’s true. You won’t even?—”

“Griffin.”

Her eyebrows shoot upward, and she takes a step back, her hand brushing self-consciously against her hair. “Griffin, you’re drunk.”

“Maybe I am,” I slur. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you haven’t so much as looked my way since we got here.”

"That's not what this is about, Griffin. You know why things are the way they are between us."

"But it's been years, Sierra. Years. Can't we just?—"

"Can't we just what, Griffin?" Her voice is sharp now, cutting through the fog that's settled over my thoughts. “How was I supposed to approach you tonight?” She continues, her voice low and deadly quiet. “Hey, Griffin, so glad you finally decided to show up! Ready to pick up right where we left off?"

"That’s better than nothing!”

"I don't want to hear it, Griffin. Not tonight. Not when you've been drinking and... Just leave me alone, okay?"

She brushes past me, leaving a trail of her perfume in her wake—vanilla and memories—and I wish I could apologize.

Wyatt’s hand slams down heavily on my shoulder.

“Come on, dude. Let’s get you home. I think Jack’s ready for bed.”

I shrug him off, but he only tightens his grip. “No, seriously, man. Time to call it a night.”

He’s right, of course. I’m past tipsy and teetering on wasted, and I know I should probably just leave with him.

“Fine,” I grumble, letting him drag me away from the party and into the cold night air.