My Secret Santa Daddies (Silver Ridge Christmas)

9. Sierra

9

SIERRA

L ast night was a disaster.

I slump back against the couch, staring at the twinkling lights of my half-decorated Christmas tree.

My gaze shifts to the folded card, reading Griffin’s penned name. I let out a long, slow breath, trying to shake the memory of his slurred words, and the way his eyes had locked onto mine, so unsteady, so raw. I shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter after all these years. But, of course, it does. It always has.

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

God, why did he have to go there? Right in the middle of Millie’s Diner, with half of Silver Ridge watching, pretending not to notice while they kept their eyes glued to their hot chocolates and Christmas cookies. They all knew we had dated for a brief moment.

I’m sure that’s been the most exciting gossip to spread around town in a long while.

He wasn’t just drunk; he was reckless. He had to know that I wouldn’t have a damn thing to say back to him—not there, not with all those eyes on us.

But that’s Griffin for you. Always thinking he can waltz back into my life after all this time, expecting me to just forgive him for everything. For Anna. For leaving me behind. For... for everything that came after.

God. I hate how good he looked. His jawline and eyes shouldn’t be allowed to enter a room.

The shrill ring of my phone cuts through my thoughts, startling me. I glance at the screen— Mom —and groan inwardly. I swipe to answer, bracing myself.

“Hey, honey!” Her voice is too cheerful for this early in the morning. “How was the Secret Santa last night? Did you have fun?”

I force a smile before I remember she can’t see me. “Hi. I’m doing good. Thanks for asking.”

“Oh, honey. I know you, but I want to know how it went! This is the first year your father and I didn’t make it.”

“It was the same as every year.”

“Who’d you get?”

I hesitate, my grip tightening around the phone. “It’s supposed to be a secret . I can’t tell you.”

Her laughter is light, teasing. “Oh, come on. I won’t tell anyone.”

But the memory of Griffin’s voice, slurred and raw, crashes over me again. “It really doesn’t matter.”

“You’re being awfully cagey about this,” she presses, her tone turning suspicious. “You didn’t draw someone… awkward, did you?”

“Awkward? No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just… you know how it is.”

“Well, you don’t sound too convincing,” she says, sounding more curious now.

“How’s your vacation?”

“Hot. Your father’s already burnt himself into a lobster.”

“Make sure he wears sunscreen.”

“Yeah, right, you know he won’t listen to anyone. Did you get your tree up at least?”

“No. Not yet.”

“It’s not going to put itself together, you know.”

“I know.”

“Love you, honey,” she says gently.

“Love you too, Mom.”

I hang up the phone and grip the little slip of paper in my hand, the name staring up at me like a taunt, like some twisted joke played by the universe. Griffin Truitt. The letters blur for a second. But it’s impossible. My hand trembles, the slip of paper crinkling beneath my grip.

Why him ? Of all the people in Silver Ridge—why did it have to be him?

How do I find a gift that means something, when all I want is to forget that he ever meant anything to me at all?

The answer is simple; I can’t.

I wad up the paper and toss it onto the floor.

Fuck it.

I don’t need to get him a gift or do any of this. I knew going to the party last night was a terrible idea, and I should’ve trusted my gut. I grind my teeth together, sink deeper into my couch and change the channel on the television.

“This is why I avoid the town’s little parties.” I mutter out loud.

The screen shifts to an animated map of Silver Ridge, snowflakes swirling over the little mountain town like a scene from a Hallmark movie.

“Silver Ridge is expected to see up to twelve inches of snow over the next twenty-four hours. With another fifteen over the weekend.” The forecaster’s voice drones, cheerful and chipper, completely at odds with the churning frustration inside of me. “Please prepare ahead of time with food and water. Meteorologists are saying this will be a recording breaking storm”.

The map glows with a swirling white vortex of cold, and it’s all I can do not to laugh bitterly at the thought of being snowed in here, alone, with the memory of that damn Secret Santa slip and everything it represents.

If I’m lucky the storm will keep up over the next twenty days and there’ll be no Secret Santa party.

A part of me wishes I could just bury it all under that snowstorm—Griffin, the tangled mess of my feelings, the way my heart squeezed when I saw his face last night. The way it still squeezes, even now, just thinking about him. But no amount of snow will be enough to bury those memories. They’ll stay right there, under the surface, ready to claw their way back up the moment I let my guard down.

I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands.

Just forget it, Sierra. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about the past.

It’s really not THAT big of a deal. I’m just being dramatic.

The television continues to babble on about the incoming storm, the wind speeds, the dropping temperature, and I force myself to focus on it, to block out everything else.

Outside, the wind howls against the window, rattling the old glass like a warning. It’s the kind of storm that can trap people in their homes, and make you feel like the world has shrunk down to the size of your own four walls.

But that’s fine. I’ve gotten used to being alone, haven’t I? I’ve been doing just fine, living my life, keeping to myself.

This time of year we always get massive snow storms. It’s nothing new.

So what if Griffin’s back in town? So what, if he’s suddenly in my head, making everything feel messy and unsteady again?

I dig my fingers into the armrest, my nails scraping the worn fabric. I don’t need to do this. I don’t need to get him a gift; I don't need to play along with the town’s stupid holiday games. I can sit right here, let the snow bury the roads, and wait for all of it to pass. Wait for Griffin to leave again, to disappear back into whatever life he built for himself outside of Silver Ridge.

Perfect.

The thought gives me a bitter, fleeting sense of relief, but then I remember the way he looked at me last night—the way his eyes softened when he thought no one was watching. The way he said my name, like he’d been holding onto it for years. And that bitter relief twists into something else, something raw and aching that I can’t quite swallow down.

I stare at the television, watching the forecast shift to warnings about road closures and freezing conditions. Twelve inches of snow. Maybe more. Enough to make travel nearly impossible.

I grab the slip of paper off the floor, smoothing out the wrinkles with my thumb, staring at the name one more time. I could burn it, shred it, throw it away. But instead, I fold it carefully, pressing the edges down until it’s a neat little square, and tuck it into the pocket of my sweater.

Then I lean back against the couch, and close my eyes as the wind howls outside, and try to convince myself that I’m making the right choice.

That when the storm hits, I’ll be strong enough to weather it alone.

The snow has been falling steadily for hours, thick and heavy, burying everything in a white blanket that stretches out as far as the eye can see. But inside, the cold has started to creep in, settling in my bones, making my fingers numb as I clutch the edge of the blanket tighter.

The power went out over an hour ago, plunging the house into darkness. At first, I thought it might flicker back on—just one of those brief outages that happen when the snow gets heavy. But now, with every passing minute, it’s becoming clear that it’s not coming back anytime soon.

The generator my dad left has been sitting untouched in the shed since I moved in. I’m clueless on how to start the thing.

The wind howls again, louder this time, and something in the branches outside cracks, startling me.

Silver Ridge is buried under at least a foot of snow now, with more falling by the second. No one’s getting in or out for days—weeks, maybe—not until the plows can clear the roads again. And judging by the rate at which it’s coming down... the situation didn’t seem promising at all.

I close my eyes, trying not to think about it—about how isolated this house is, how easily it could be missed for days if not for...

No. I don’t need to think about that. I’ll just get myself all worked up for no reason.

The house is old, and drafty, with gaps around the doors and windows that let the cold seep in. I try to distract myself by counting the seconds between the gusts of wind, but soon enough, even that doesn’t work. My teeth are chattering, and my fingers are turning stiff as the temperature drops further.

This isn’t just uncomfortable. It’s dangerous.

I force myself to stand, and shuffle to the kitchen to check my phone, hoping that maybe, miraculously, I’ll have enough signal to call for help. But the screen stares back at me with that same familiar message— No Service —mocking me. I try holding it up to the window, but the storm is too strong, blocking any chance of a signal.

My frustration bubbles over, a bitter laugh escaping my lips as I shove the phone into my pocket. Of course. Of course , this is how tonight would go. Because fate has a sick sense of humor when it comes to me.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dark window, my face pale and drawn, eyes wide and wild, and I hate how small I look, how fragile. I had spent years telling myself that I could survive anything, that I didn’t need anyone’s help. But right now, I was feeling more alone than I have in a long, long time.

The wind howls again, rattling the windows so hard that I half expect it to shatter. And then, as if on cue, the temperature drops even further, and the cold presses in like an icy hand wrapping around my chest.

I swallow hard, glancing at the pile of blankets on the couch, at the dark, empty space that feels colder than ever.

I pace the tiny space of my living room, clutching my coat around me as the chill seeps in deeper, turning my breath into little white puffs. My fingers are stiff, my nose red and raw, and I can’t think straight with the constant shivering.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

I glance at the door, at the swirling snow outside, knowing that I’m stuck here. Knowing that if I leave, I’ll get lost in the blizzard before I make it a mile. But staying here isn’t much better either. It’s a lose-lose, and all I can do is huddle in on myself, and try to fight the rising panic.

I should move somewhere warm like Texas or Mexico.

That sounds nice. No more fucking snow.

The wind howls again, rattling the windows like it’s trying to claw its way inside, and I grit my teeth against the sound, feeling my frustration and fear boil over. I’m trapped, helpless in a way I haven’t felt in years, and I hate it. I hate that I’ve let myself get into this position. I should have gone to Susan’s, at least I wouldn’t have been alone.

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling the cold seep through the thin layers of my clothes, and close my eyes, trying to keep the panic at bay. But just when I think I can’t stand another minute of this, when I’m about to give in to the urge to scream, a sound cuts through the wind—a pounding knock at the door.

For a second, I think I’m imagining it, that my mind is playing tricks on me in the dark, but then it comes again—three sharp knocks, barely audible over the storm. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

“Sierra!” the muffled voice hollers.

I stumble to the door, yanking it open, and am nearly blinded by the swirl of snow and wind that rushes in. Standing there, covered in snow and shivering just as violently as me, is Griffin . And behind him, I can just about make out the shapes of Cody and Wyatt, bundled up in thick coats, their expressions hidden behind scarves and hoods.

“Griffin?” My voice comes out choked filled with disbelief. A desperate sense of relief rushes over me, though I hate to admit it.

He pulls down his scarf, his breath fogging in the air as he looks at me, his face raw with cold.

“Hey, Sierra. We, uh—” He glances back at Wyatt and Cody, who are already stepping forward with shovels in hand.

“Figured you might be freezing your ass off by now.”

“What are you three doing here? Where’s Jack?” I manage, my voice cracking with shock and a hint of something warmer.

“Heard the power went out, and he’s in the car.” Wyatt answers simply, his voice steady despite the storm. “We couldn’t just leave you here, not like this.”

I glance past them to see Griffin’s truck parked on the side of the snow-covered road, its headlights cutting through the darkness. I want to slam the door shut, to tell them to leave, to stop trying to rescue me. But the cold is seeping in faster than my pride can keep up.

“I’m fi—” I start to say, but Griffin cuts me off, his tone sharper than I expect.

“You’re not fine, Sierra,” he snaps, frustration flashing in his eyes. “You’re stuck here, alone, in the middle of a damn blizzard.”

“We brought shovels,” Cody chimes in, as if that solves everything. “And a thermos of hot chocolate.”

Wyatt rolls his eyes. “As if that’s enough to convince her.”

I swallow hard, torn between stubbornness and the bone-chilling reality of the storm. “You can’t just barge in here.”

“Actually, we can,” Griffin replies, stepping closer, his voice dropping lower. “We’re not leaving until you come with us.”

“Yeah,” Cody adds with a grin. “We didn’t drive all this way just to get yelled at.”

I let out a long sigh, the fight finally draining out of me. “Fine. But don’t make a habit of this.”

Wyatt raises an eyebrow. “Dragging you out of a snowstorm or barging into your life?”

“Both.”

Without another word, they start moving like they’ve done this a hundred times. Wyatt and Cody begin clearing a path to the truck, the rhythmic sound of their shovels breaking the silence. Griffin steps inside, brushing snow off his shoulders as he helps me gather a few essentials—extra clothes, toiletries, my phone, and other small things I can’t leave behind.

He pauses when he grabs my coat from the hook by the door. “You’re really stubborn, you know that?”

I snatch it from him, my hand brushing his for a moment. “Takes one to know one.”

“We couldn’t let you stay here, Sierra.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod.

Cody pops his head back in, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Ready? Truck’s warming up.”

“Just about,” Griffin says, his voice softening as he turns back to me. “Grab what you need.”

Minutes later, we’re making our way to the truck, snow crunching under our boots, the cold biting at every exposed inch of skin. I clutch my bag tightly, feeling the heat of Griffin’s hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the snow.

I pause once more, looking back at the darkened house. “I wasn’t planning to freeze to death, you know,” I say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

Griffin’s expression softens, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Well, now you don’t have to prove that.”

By the time they’ve helped me into the truck, my teeth are chattering so hard I can barely speak, but I manage a tight, “Thanks.”

Griffin settles in beside me with a shake of his head, slamming the door shut against the wind.

“You don’t have to thank me, Sierra.”

“HI!” Jack shouts, waving a gloved hand over at me from his car seat, bundled up in a small snowsuit.

“Hey, there.”

“You’re going to stay over?”

“Yeah, buddy. Sierra’s going to stay at our house.” Griffin’s eyes dart upward to meet his son’s in the rear view mirror.

“YAY!”

As Griffin turns the truck around, guiding it back through the snow-covered streets, I lean back against the seat, watching my house fade into the swirling white behind us. I try to ignore the tension coiling in my chest, the way being near him again feels like reopening a wound that never fully healed.

“You’ve been managing at your parents place, huh?”

“Managing is one word for it, and it’s my house now.”

He nods slowly.

Wyatt lets out a low whistle. “Is that where you planned to spend Christmas?”

“It was the plan,” I say, in a clipped voice. “What else would I be doing?”

Cody scoffs, brushing snow off his beard. “Maybe not freezing your ass off alone in the house, for starters.”

Griffin raises an eyebrow, trying to keep the conversation casual but failing miserably. “So… how’s life been treating you?”

“Life is life. It’s going. Still running the bakery.”

“That’s good.”

“How about you? How’s work?”

“Good.”

Now, I know that’s an understatement. From what I’ve read and seen Griffin is worth millions, if not billions at this point. He could be anywhere in the world, and he had decided to come back here.

For a moment, none of us knows what to say, and an awkward silence descends on us.

Then Cody, always the one to break tension with bluntness, speaks up. “So, what’d you think of the Secret Santa drawing the other night?”

I pause, my cheeks flushing at the memory of Griffin’s slurred words, the way he’d called me out in front of everyone. “It was… eventful.”

Wyatt smirks, trying to lighten the mood. “You say that like it was a bad thing.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Griffin’s jaw tightens slightly, and I can see a flash of something in his eyes—regret, maybe, or frustration. “I meant what I said, Sierra. I wasn’t trying to make things worse.”

“You could’ve picked a better time,” I shoot back, the bitterness in my voice surprising even me.

“I know.”

Cody, sensing the tension rising again, grins and leans forward. “So, who do you think got who?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“For the Secret Santa,” he clarifies, nudging Wyatt with his elbow. “I bet Wyatt here got Betty Thompson.”

Wyatt snorts. “And what makes you think that?”

“No reason other than my gut feeling.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s a small, awkward sound, but it’s genuine. “You two really haven’t changed at all.”

Cody leans back, his expression softer now. “Neither have you, Sierra.”

I want to deny it, to say I’m not the same girl who fell for Griffin all those years ago, but the words stick in my throat.

“And who did you pull, Sierra?” Griffin asks, his voice low, and careful. There’s an edge of curiosity there, but also something deeper—something he’s trying to hide.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Maybe.”

Wyatt’s voice breaks the tension again. “Come on, Sierra. You’re not going to tell us who you got?”

“Nope,” I say, my tone firm but playful.

Cody rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fine. But you better show up for the exchange, or we’ll come drag you there ourselves.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” I ask, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“It’s a promise,” Griffin says quietly.