Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
DESTINY
The Whisper Vale Elementary School gymnasium has been transformed into the North Pole.
Silver snowflakes hang from the ceiling, twinkling lights drape across every wall, and a massive Christmas tree stands in the corner, dripping with ornaments made by students.
It's like stepping into a holiday movie set.
"What do you think?" Mason asks as we enter, his hand warm against the small of my back.
"It's magical," I breathe, taking in the festive scene.
The party is already in full swing with couples dancing to a live band playing Christmas classics, children racing between tables laden with cookies and punch, townspeople mingling in their holiday best. For a moment, I forget about Greg and his associate, about the constant fear that's shadowed me for months.
Tonight, I'm just a woman at a Christmas party with the man she's falling for.
"Mason! You made it!" Riley hurries over, resplendent in a crimson dress that matches the poinsettias decorating the tables. She hugs us both. "And Destiny, you look stunning. That dress is perfect."
"Thanks to Sylvie," I say, smoothing the emerald fabric. "She's a miracle worker."
"Speaking of miracles..." Riley gestures toward Mason. "Getting this one to attend a social function used to require an act of God."
Mason rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "I wasn't that bad."
"You brought work files to last year's party and hid in the supply closet," Riley counters with a laugh. "Jax had to physically drag you onto the dance floor."
"That was before he had a beautiful fiancée to dance with," Jax says, appearing with two glasses of punch. He hands one to Riley and kisses her cheek. "You clean up nice, Walsh."
"So I've been told." Mason wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to his side. The possessive gesture sends warmth spreading through me.
We make our way through the crowd, stopping frequently as Mason introduces me to what feels like the entire town. Everyone is welcoming, curious about the woman who finally captured the elusive therapist's heart. I play my part—the adoring fiancée—though it hardly feels like acting anymore.
"Destiny, honey!" Mrs. Peterson beckons from a table near the dance floor. "Come sit with us old folks for a minute. I want to hear all about how you and Mason met."
Mason squeezes my hand. "I'll get us drinks. The real kind." He nods toward a table where Tom is discreetly adding something from a flask to cups of punch.
"Don't be long," I say, not wanting to be separated even briefly. Despite the festive atmosphere, awareness of potential danger lingers just beneath my holiday cheer.
"Two minutes," he promises, dropping a kiss on my temple before weaving through the crowd.
I join Mrs. Peterson and her friends, launching into our rehearsed story about meeting during one of Mason's wilderness therapy retreats where I was researching for a children's book. The lie flows easily now, embellished with details we've added over the past week.
"And when did you know he was the one?" Mrs. Peterson asks, leaning forward eagerly.
The question catches me off guard. Our script covers how we met, how he proposed, but not this—the moment of recognition, of certainty. I pause, considering.
"It wasn't one moment," I find myself saying, surprised by the honesty in my voice. "It was all the little things. How he brings me coffee exactly how I like it without being asked. The way he listens—really listens—when I talk. How safe I feel when he's near."
The women coo appreciatively, but I'm barely aware of them. The truth of my words resonates through me, startling in its clarity. When did Mason Walsh become essential to my happiness? When did this charade transform into the most real thing I've ever felt?
"You're glowing, dear," Mrs. Peterson pats my hand. "Young love is a beautiful thing to witness."
Before I can respond, the crowd parts, and I spot Mason returning with our drinks. He moves with easy confidence, nodding to people as he passes, completely unaware of how striking he looks in his dark blazer and blue shirt that makes his eyes appear even more intense.
This man is mine, I think with a surge of possessiveness that surprises me. Not just for show, not just for safety, but mine in all the ways that matter.
"Sorry for the delay," Mason says as he reaches us. "Got caught by the mayor asking about collaborating on a youth mental health initiative."
"Always working," I tease, accepting the cup he offers. The punch has been liberally enhanced with what tastes like spiced rum.
"Some things never change," Mrs. Peterson agrees with a knowing look. "Though you've certainly improved his social skills, Destiny. Last Christmas he spent the entire party hiding behind a potted plant."
"It was a strategic location with good sightlines," Mason defends himself, making me laugh.
The band shifts to a slow rendition of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," and Mason extends his hand. "Dance with me?"
I take his hand without hesitation, letting him lead me to the dance floor.
His arm circles my waist, drawing me close as we begin to sway to the music.
The familiar scent of his cologne envelops me—pine and leather and something uniquely Mason.
I rest my head against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat.
"You look beautiful tonight," he murmurs into my hair. "Every man in this room is jealous."
"Let them be." I tilt my face up to his. "I only want one."
Something flashes in his eyes—possession, desire, something deeper I'm not ready to name. His hand tightens at my waist.
"Have I mentioned how much I like that dress?" His voice drops lower, just for me.
"You might have said something." I smile, enjoying his appreciation. "Wait till you see what's underneath."
His eyes darken. "Tease."
"Promise." I press closer, feeling his immediate physical response. "Maybe we should leave early."
"Don't tempt me." He spins me in a slow circle, bringing me back to his chest with practiced ease. "We just got here."
We dance through three songs, lost in our own world. The party continues around us, but all I see is Mason—the curve of his smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way he holds me like I'm something precious.
"I need to use the ladies' room," I tell him after our third dance. "I'll be right back."
"Want me to walk you?"
"It's twenty feet away." I nod toward the hallway. "I think I'll manage."
He hesitates, torn between protectiveness and not wanting to be overbearing. "Two minutes, then I'm sending a search party."
"Duly noted." I press a quick kiss to his lips before slipping away.
The hallway is quieter than the gymnasium, the music fading to a dull thrum as I make my way to the restroom. I'm washing my hands when the door opens and Riley enters, her cheeks flushed from dancing.
"Having fun?" she asks, touching up her lipstick in the mirror.
"The best." I dry my hands on a paper towel. "Thank you for inviting us."
"Are you kidding? The whole town's been waiting for Mason to find someone." She caps her lipstick, turning to face me fully. "He's different with you. Lighter somehow."
"I'm different with him too." The admission comes easily. "He makes me feel... possible."
Riley's expression softens with understanding. "Jax had the same effect on me. After what I went through with my ex, I didn't think I could trust anyone again. Then this grumpy mountain man barged into my life and proved me wrong."
The parallel to my own situation is striking. "How did you know it was real? That you could trust it?"
"I didn't, at first." She leans against the sink. "I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop—for him to show his true colors, to try to control me like my ex did. But it never happened. Instead, he just... loved me. Consistently, patiently, without demands or expectations."
Her words resonate deeply. Mason has been nothing but supportive, protective without being controlling, caring without being suffocating.
"It's only been a week," I say, voicing my deepest fear. "How can something this intense be real in such a short time?"
"Some connections don't follow normal timelines." Riley squeezes my arm gently. "When you know, you know. Trust that feeling, Destiny."
I want to. God, I want to so badly. But years of conditioning under Greg's manipulation make me wary of my own emotions, my own judgment.
"I should get back," I say, not ready to examine these feelings too closely. "Mason's probably scanning the exits by now."
Riley laughs. "That man is head over heels for you. It's adorable."
We return to the gym together, but Mason isn't where I left him. I scan the room, spotting him in deep conversation with Tom near the punch table. The serious set of his jaw sends a chill down my spine.
"Everything okay?" I ask as I approach.
Both men turn, Mason's expression immediately softening when he sees me. "Everything's fine," he says, a bit too quickly. "Tom was just updating me on... community matters."
I'm not fooled. "Is it Greg? Or his associate?"
The men exchange a look, and my stomach drops. "What happened?"
Tom clears his throat. "Nothing concrete. Just being cautious. The man who was asking questions about you checked out of his motel this afternoon."
"That's good, right?" I look between them. "If he's gone—"
"Or it means Greg's coming himself," Mason finishes, voice tight. "Tom spotted a black Escalade at a gas station in Carson City this morning. Two hours away."
Fear coils in my stomach, cold and familiar. "You think he's coming here? Tonight?"
"We don't know that," Tom says calmly. "But I've doubled security at the entrances, just in case."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed despite the crowded room. "Maybe we should leave."