Hogging the Holidays (25 Days of Christmas: Bikers & Mobsters)
Chapter 1 Cece
CECE
The worst part about coming home with your tail tucked between your legs isn't the pity—it's the way everyone pretends they're not giving it to you.
I drag my suitcase up the front steps of my childhood home, the wheels catching on every crack in the concrete like it's protesting this whole mess as much as I am.
The yellow paint on the porch railing is peeling worse than I remember, curling away in long strips that remind me of my marriage.
Something that looked fine from a distance but fell apart the moment you got close enough to really see it.
“Cecelia Marie!” Dad's voice booms through the screen door before I even reach for the handle. He must have heard my car in the driveway—he always does, like he’s wired into the damn gravel.
He’s been waiting; I can feel it in the sharp edge of his tone.
“Get yourself in here before Mrs. Henderson sees you and starts running her mouth.”
Too late for that, catching a glimpse of our neighbor's curtains twitching back into place. The San Salona gossip network moves faster than wildfire in August, and I've just given them premium fuel. Divorced daughter crawling back home at thirty-two with nothing but a beat-up Honda and enough emotional baggage to fill a storage unit. To be honest, I’m surprised the local paper isn’t here taking my photo for a front-page news story.
It’s not every day that the preacher’s daughter and the mayor’s son get divorced.
“Hi, Dad.” I let the screen door slam behind me, wincing at the sound. Some things never change. Like the way this house makes me feel twelve years old again, all scraped knees and disappointment.
He's standing in the hallway wearing his best attempt at a welcoming smile, but I can see the worry lines around his eyes have deepened. The last time I saw him, I was still pretending my marriage was just going through a rough patch instead of a total demolition.
“You look thin,” he says, which is Dad-code for I'm worried about you but don't know how to say it.
“Divorce diet.” I force a smile. “Very effective. Might write a lifestyle book about it.”
He doesn't laugh. Instead, he takes my suitcase from me, his weathered hand brushing mine. “Your room's all ready. Didn't change a thing.”
That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
I follow him up the stairs, each step creaking in the exact same places they did when I used to sneak out to meet my first boyfriend, Jake, behind the high school bleachers.
Jake, with his motorcycle, leather jacket, and the smile that promised trouble worth having.
The town bad boy who ended up becoming a dentist in Tallahassee.
Life's funny that way. Apparently, marrying the born to be successful mayor’s son wasn’t as safe of a bet as I had originally thought.
“I made pot roast,” Dad says over his shoulder. “Figured you'd be hungry after the drive.”
My stomach growls in response. It's been nothing but gas station coffee and stale donuts since I left Boulder this morning. “Thanks.”
The room is exactly as I left it fourteen years ago when I left for college.
Floral bedspread. Faded posters of bands I pretended to like because the cool girls did.
Cheerleading trophies I earned to make my parents proud more than myself.
The whole room is like a museum exhibit: Teenage Dreams, Circa 2010.
I drop onto the bed, and the mattress squeaks in protest. “How long before the whole town knows I'm back?”
“Oh, honey.” Dad sits heavily in my old desk chair, making it spin slightly. “They already know. Mrs. Patterson called as soon as you crossed into the city limits.”
She would. I can practically see her perched at that lace-covered window of hers, phone already unlocked, waiting for the exact moment my Honda’s bumper touched Maple Street. She lives for this—information delivered like a prayer request.
“And?” I brace myself.
“Well, she wanted to know if you'd gained weight. I told her you looked beautiful as always.” He clears his throat. “She also asked if it was true about Ethan and his secretary. She called her something else, but it doesn’t bear repeating.”
Even a hundred miles away, Ethan managed to humiliate me in my hometown. “It wasn't his secretary.”
Dad raises an eyebrow.
“It was one of the flight attendants for his company’s private jet.
Well, the current one, anyway. Before her, it was his yoga instructor.
And probably half the women at his country club, if I'm being honest.” The words taste bitter, but there's relief in finally saying them out loud.
“I was the last to know, apparently. Very cliché of me.”
“Cecelia—”
“It's fine, Dad. Really.” I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck up there in seventh grade. Most of them barely hanging on now. Kind of like me, and my sanity.
Dad sighs and I can hear everything he's not saying. The disappointment that I didn't try harder to save my marriage. The unspoken “I told you so” about marrying into the Kincaid family in the first place. He's too good a preacher to say it, but I know he's thinking it.
“You ready to eat?” he asks finally, changing the subject in that classic Montgomery way. Feelings are messy, whereas pot roast is straightforward.
“Starving,” I admit, though the knot in my stomach suggests otherwise.
We eat in near silence, just the scrape of forks against plates and the occasional “pass the salt” breaking through.
Dad tries to keep things light, updating me on church gossip—Mrs. Daniels' fight with the choir director, the youth group's car wash fundraiser that turned into a water balloon fight. The women’s group has been protesting a movie they want to shoot in town.
Normal, safe topics that don't venture anywhere near my failed marriage or uncertain future.
It's when we're clearing the dishes that he finally breaks.
“You know you can stay as long as you need,” he says, rinsing a plate. “But what's your plan, Cecelia?”
The million-dollar question. The one I've been avoiding since I signed the divorce papers and realized I had nowhere to go but backwards.
“I don't know yet,” I admit. “I've got some interviews lined up at the elementary school. They need a substitute teacher.” I’ve never taught a day in my life, but a job is a job.
Back in Boulder, I had my floral shop and high-end boutique, but I lost half of it in the divorce.
Thankfully, Ethan had agreed to sell his share along with mine.
I just need to find a buyer first. Until I do, I am stuck.
Dad's eyes narrow slightly, the way they always do when he thinks I'm not being completely honest. “Substitute teaching? With your business degree?”
“It's a job, Dad. And last time I checked beggars who've been financially gutted by their ex-husbands can't be choosers.” I wince at my own tone. “Sorry. It's been a long day.”
“I understand.” But his tight smile says he doesn't, not really.
I dry the last plate and hang the dish towel on the oven handle. “I just need some time to figure things out. The shop back in Boulder is being sold, and once that's done, I'll have a little cushion to rebuild with.”
“The Lord provides,” Dad says automatically, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The Lord didn't provide, my lawyer did, after fighting tooth and nail to keep Ethan from taking everything. And all that providing just bought him a nice new vacation house after his fees.
The truth is, I don't have a plan beyond surviving each day without crumbling. Without calling Ethan and begging him to take me back, dignity be damned. That's why I drove twelve hours to get here—to put enough distance between us that I couldn't make that mistake. That and the thought of spending Christmas alone hurt more than it should have. Ethan and I always took a trip after the holidays. Just the two of us. When we first got married, we’d put places we’d like to visit in a fishbowl and pick until the very last piece. Last year, we spent New Year’s Eve in Rome.
The year before that Bora Bora, on the prettiest white sand beach I’d ever seen.
“Your mother would be proud of you, you know.” Dad dries his hands on a dish towel, his gaze not quite meeting mine.
The mention of Mom hits me like a sucker punch. She's been gone for fifteen years, and her absence still feels fresh sometimes. “Would she? Or would she be disappointed that I couldn't keep my marriage together?”
“Cecelia.” His voice takes on that pulpit tone.
I stack the plates into the plastic drainer. “I ignored the red flags. I believed him every time he said, 'it won't happen again.'“
Dad sets down the dish towel and turns to face me. “Red flags don't make the person who ignores them responsible for someone else's choices, Cece. Ethan chose to betray his vows. That's on him.”
I want to believe that. God, I want to believe it so badly it makes my chest ache. But the voice in my head—the one that sounds suspiciously like Ethan's mother—keeps whispering that maybe if I'd been more attentive, more interesting, more something, he wouldn't have needed to look elsewhere.
“I should probably get some sleep,” I say instead, because this conversation is heading somewhere I'm not ready to go.
Dad's shoulders slump slightly. “I have to go into the church early tomorrow. The annual toy drive starts in the morning, and Jillian can’t make it. She took it over last year, but her husband has been in the hospital. If you’re interested in it, I sure could use the help.”
“I’ll think about it.” I kiss his cheek—stubble rough against my lips—and head upstairs.
The floorboards creak their familiar song as I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
In the mirror, I look exactly like what I am.
A woman who's been through hell and is still picking gravel out of her knees.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand as I'm pulling on an old college t-shirt. For one terrifying moment, my heart jumps, thinking it might be Ethan. But it's just a text from my best friend Maya back in Boulder.
How's the homecoming going? Scale of 1 to ‘I'm running away to join the circus’?
Somewhere between 'drinking wine in the bathtub' and 'googling witness protection programs.'
That bad already?
Mrs. Henderson was watching from behind her curtains. Dad made pot roast. My bedroom still has the N’SYNC poster I swore I took down before college.
So basically time travel to your most awkward years. Perfect healing environment.
I smile despite myself. Maya always could make me laugh, even during the worst of it—like when I found the earring in our bed that definitely wasn't mine, or when Ethan's credit card statement showed dinner for two at restaurants I'd never been to.
At least you have good timing. You're missing the first snow of the season.
Boulder's probably a winter wonderland by now.
It is. Ethan's car got stuck in it this morning. He posted on social media offering to pay someone $1,000 to pull him out if they could be there in fifteen minutes or less.
My stomach clenches at his name.
Please don't tell me things about him.
Sorry. Old habit. How long do you think you'll stay there?
I stare at the ceiling, at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars.
Until I figure out what comes next. Or until someone kidnaps me. Whichever comes first.
Call me if you need me. Seriously. I will drop the boys off at my brother’s and run.
I love her for the offer, but this is something I need to figure out on my own.
I set the phone aside and pull the covers up to my chin.
The house settles around me with all its familiar sounds—the furnace kicking on, the old pipes groaning, the grandfather clock in the hallway chiming eleven times.
Sounds that used to comfort me, back when this place felt like home instead of a retreat.
Sleep doesn't come easy. Every time I close my eyes, I see Ethan's face when I confronted him about the earring.
The way he tried to gaslight me, making me feel crazy for asking questions.
“You're being paranoid, Cece. It's probably yours from months ago.” As if I couldn't tell the difference between my simple gold studs and someone else's gaudy diamond hoops.
I roll over and punch the pillow into submission. Tomorrow I'll have to face the town properly where everyone will stare and whisper. The thought makes my skin crawl, but I can't hide in this house forever. Well, I could, but that would give them even more to talk about.