Chapter 8 Cece
CECE
The church van door has always made that god-awful screeching sound—an unholy mix of nails on a chalkboard and a dying cat. But today, as I slide it open for the twentieth time, there’s nothing but smooth, blessed silence.
“What kind of black magic did you work on this thing?” I ask, sliding the door back and forth with downright childish delight. “It’s been screaming for as long as I can remember. Sunday School kids used to flinch whenever someone touched it.”
Brayden grins, wiping his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. “Just needed some silicone lubricant. That, and the track was bent.” He says it casually, as though he didn’t just fix in thirty minutes what entire generations of church maintenance committees couldn’t manage.
“Well, the youth group will canonize you for this alone,” I say, reaching for another box of canned goods. “You would not believe how many times that squeak exposed kids sneaking out during a lock-in.”
“Speaking from experience, princess?” His eyebrow arches as he lifts two boxes effortlessly.
“I plead the fifth.” I try to keep my face serious, but it's impossible. Something about him makes me want to laugh.
We've been unloading groceries for the better part of an hour, our rhythm so natural it's like we've been doing this for years instead of just a few hours. The warehouse club trip was a success beyond my wildest dreams. Between the little monetary donations we received and Brayden picking up the rest, our families won’t go hungry.
“You know,” I say, hefting a case of macaroni and cheese, “I think we might actually pull this off. Between the toys and now this food, we might save Christmas after all.”
“Never doubted it. You're too stubborn to let the Kincaids win.”
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “Stubborn? Me? I prefer determined.”
“Same thing, different packaging.” He reaches for the box in my arms, his fingers brushing mine. “Let me take that.”
“I can handle it,” I protest, but he's already lifting it from my grasp.
“I know you can. But you don't have to.”
Something about those simple words hits me harder than they should. You don't have to. When was the last time someone offered to carry my burdens instead of adding to them?
Dad appears in the doorway of the fellowship hall, his expression a complicated mix of surprise and reluctant approval as he surveys the mountains of food we’ve managed to bring in. His gaze lingers on Brayden, who’s arranging boxes of dry goods. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Very,” I reply, trying not to sound defensive. “We got everything on the list and then some.”
Dad steps further into the room, scanning the tables piled high with groceries with what might be genuine appreciation. “This is...impressive.”
“Thank your daughter,” Brayden says without looking up from the boxes he’s organizing. “She’s the one who knew exactly what the families would need.”
Dad’s eyebrows lift slightly at that, his attention shifting to me with a question I can’t quite decipher. I straighten under his scrutiny, suddenly sixteen again and desperate to prove I’m responsible enough for the car keys.
“The van ran well?” Dad asks, changing the subject.
“Like a dream,” I say. “Brayden even fixed the sliding door. No more screeching.”
His brows rise. “You fixed it? We’ve had three different mechanics look at that door.”
Brayden shrugs—half dismissive, half proud. “Sometimes you just need a fresh perspective on an old problem.”
“Indeed.” Dad straightens, “Well, I should let you finish up. The board meeting starts in an hour.”
My stomach drops. I’d almost forgotten about the emergency meeting, the one where Mrs. Whitaker will undoubtedly present her detailed report on this morning’s concerning developments.
“Dad,” I start, but he holds up a hand.
“Don’t worry about it, Cecelia. Some battles are worth fighting.” He meets Brayden’s gaze across the room. “Thank you. For all of this.”
Brayden nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment between men. Then Dad's gone, leaving us alone with the echo of his footsteps.
“Think he'll survive the board meeting?” Brayden asks, breaking the silence.
“My father? He's tougher than he looks.” I stack another box, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“He'll be fine,” Brayden says, reaching for the last box in the van. “Your dad seems like the kind of man who knows how to handle church politics.”
We get lost in sorting through the boxes.
It isn’t until we’re filling the final food box that the back door to the fellowship hall swings open.
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees as Richard Kincaid strides in, carrying himself with the certainty of a man who believes the entire building exists because of his family’s “donations.”
He probably thinks it does.
His eyes sweep the room, taking in the stacks of food boxes before locking onto Brayden. His face twists into pure disgust, his expression curdling as though he’s just uncovered something foul on the bottom of his Italian leather shoes.
Brayden sets down the box he's holding with deliberate care, his movements controlled in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
He moves to my side, putting himself between Richard and me.
Every muscle in my body tenses as I watch him glide across the room.
His lips are pressed into a thin line of disapproval, but strangely, he doesn't say a word.
Not one snide comment, not one veiled threat.
He simply walks past us before continuing toward the main hall where the board meeting will be held.
The silence is somehow worse than any confrontation.
Brayden's hand finds my elbow, his touch firm but gentle. “We're done here,” he declares as he guides me toward the exit.
“What are you doing?” I argue, but I don't resist as he leads me through the back door and into the parking lot.
“Getting you out of here.” His strides are long and purposeful, forcing me to jog to keep up.
“Brayden, wait.” I tug against his hold, making him pause. “My dad's meeting is about to start. I should be there to defend him—to defend us.”
He turns to face me, his expression grave. “The last place you need to be right now is in that room with Kincaid.”
“But my dad—”
“Can handle himself.” His eyes soften slightly. “Remember when you asked about another ride?”
I hesitate, my heart thudding in my chest as I look back at the church where my father is about to face the board.
“Okay. Let's go.”
Relief flashes across Brayden's face, so brief I almost miss it. He releases my elbow but stays close as we walk toward his bike.
“Shit,” he mutters, giving me a once-over that makes heat bloom in my cheeks despite the chill in the air. “You'll freeze dressed like that.”
I glance down at my thin sweater and jeans. I’d rushed out without my heavier coat, and the December wind slips straight through the fabric without the slightest resistance.
“I'm fine,” I lie, even as a shiver betrays me.
Brayden gives me a look that says he's not buying it. “Hold on.” He strides over to his bike and flips open one of his saddlebags, rummaging through it before pulling out a dark gray hoodie. “Here.”
He holds it out to me, and I hesitate for just a moment before taking it. The fabric is soft and worn, clearly well-loved, and when I slip it over my head, I'm immediately enveloped in his scent.
The hoodie swallows me whole, sleeves covering my hands, the hem landing mid-thigh. Warmth settles around me, his scent woven into every inch of the fabric.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” I push the sleeves up to free my hands, feeling oddly vulnerable and protected all at once, “Thanks.”
Brayden nods, then reaches for the helmet hanging from his handlebar. “Come here,” he says, gesturing me closer.
I step forward, and he gently places the helmet on my head, his fingers brushing my cheeks as he secures the strap. His touch is surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the strength I know those hands possess.
“Too tight?” he asks, adjusting the strap beneath my chin.
“No, it's perfect.” My voice sounds muffled inside the helmet, but I can't blame that for the breathlessness I hear in it.
He secures the strap under my chin. His eyes focused on the task but occasionally flicking up to meet mine. Something passes between us in those brief moments–a current of understanding, of want, that makes my skin prickle with awareness beneath his oversized hoodie.
“All set,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “Ready to go?”
I nod. He swings his leg over the bike and pats the seat behind him.
I climb on less awkwardly this time, already more confident as I slide onto the seat behind him.
Without hesitation, my arms encircle his waist, fingers locking together over the hard planes of his stomach.
I press closer than strictly necessary, telling myself it's just for warmth.
The engine roars to life beneath us, vibrating through my entire body in a way that sends my heart racing. I lean into him as we pull out of the church parking lot, watching my father's house of worship grow smaller in the side mirror until it disappears completely around a bend.
We don't take the main roads this time. Instead, Brayden guides us through back streets. The town looks different from the back of his bike—more beautiful somehow, less suffocating.
I'm so lost in the sensation of the wind and the solid warmth of Brayden's back against my chest that I don't immediately register where we're headed until we turn down a familiar tree-lined drive.
Jillian's house appears through the branches, its gingerbread trim and wraparound porch exactly as I remember from childhood visits.
Brayden doesn't drive up to the main house, but to a small guest house on the back side of the property. He cuts the engine, and I reluctantly unwrap my arms from his waist as he dismounts, immediately missing his warmth.