Chapter 10 #2
“Attitude problem?” I fire back. “My attitude wasn’t the issue in our marriage, Ethan. Your inability to stay faithful was the issue. See exhibit A—” I gesture toward Brittany. “Or is she closer to Z by now? Have we moved on to numbers yet?”
Brittany gasps, her immaculately manicured hand flying to her mouth. The sound is so theatrical, I half expect a director to jump out from behind the Christmas tree and yell cut.
Ethan’s face darkens, his carefully cultivated public image cracking right in front of me. “You know what? I felt bad for you. Thought maybe we could be civil. But clearly, you’re still the same bitter, ungrateful—”
“Finish that sentence,” Brayden cuts in, “I dare you.”
The temperature seems to drop ten degrees as Brayden’s massive frame shifts between Ethan and me. I can only see his back, but the sudden rigidity in his shoulders speaks volumes.
Ethan falters, the bravado draining from his face as he takes in Brayden’s full height and build. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“See, that's where you're wrong,” Brayden says, his tone conversational but with an undercurrent that raises the hair on my arms. “It became my concern the moment you opened your mouth.”
People around us have gone quiet, the festive chatter dying as they tune in to the drama unfolding. From the corner of my eye, I can see Mrs. Henderson frantically waving to someone—probably my father.
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Ethan hisses, trying to claw back some authority but ending up angrier lapdog than actual threat.
“Do I look concerned?” Brayden’s voice drops to a deeper, harder register, and I see Ethan swallow.
“You should. My father—”
“Isn't here,” Brayden finishes for him. “It's just you. And from where I'm standing, you're nothing but a spoiled little boy in daddy's expensive coat.”
I step up beside Brayden, feeling strangely empowered by his presence. “It's not worth it,” I tell him, though part of me would love nothing more than to see Ethan taken down a peg.
Brayden's eyes never leave Ethan's face, but I feel his body shift slightly closer to mine. “Your call, princess.”
The nickname makes Ethan's face flush an ugly shade of red. “Princess? Is that what you're calling her? That's rich. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. She's high maintenance, frigid, and—”
Brayden moves so fast I barely register it happening. One second he's beside me, the next he has Ethan by the collar of his expensive coat, lifting him slightly so he's on his tiptoes. Brittany shrieks and jumps back, her hot chocolate splashing onto the pavement.
Brayden growls, his face inches from Ethan's. “I told you to stop talking.”
The crowd around us has gone completely silent, the Christmas music suddenly feeling jarring against the tension crackling in the air. I can see my father pushing his way through the crowd, his face a storm of concern and fury.
“Let him go,” I say quietly, placing my hand on Brayden's arm. His muscles are rigid under my touch, coiled with restrained violence.
For a moment, I think Brayden won’t listen. His grip tightens on Ethan’s collar, and I catch the flicker of real fear crossing my ex-husband’s face. Then, with visible effort, Brayden releases him, shoving him back so hard Ethan stumbles into Brittany.
“You're fucking crazy,” Ethan gasps, straightening his coat with shaking hands. “Both of you.”
“Care to test just how crazy I can be, asshole? Keep fucking insulting her, and you’ll fucking find out.”
“How dare you speak to me–”
Brayden snarls. “You have two choices, Ethan. Take your flavor of the week and leave or stay here and see what happens. Your choice.”
Ethan opens his mouth like he's going to argue, but one look at Brayden's face changes his mind. He grabs Brittany's arm and pulls her away, muttering something about “calling my father” as they retreat through the parting crowd.
My father reaches us just as they disappear, his expression a mix of concern and disapproval. “Cecelia, what on earth. This is not the place for a scuffle. Have you no—”
“Not now, Dad,” I cut him off, ignoring the hurt that flashes across Dad's face. My skin is buzzing with leftover adrenaline, and my heart's pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears.
Dad looks between Brayden and me, his mouth pressed into that thin line of disappointment I know all too well. “This isn't the place for...whatever this is.”
“You're right,” I agree, surprising him. “It's not.”
I look at Brayden. He hasn’t moved, still as stone beside me, but I can feel the tension rolling off him. His eyes catch mine—dark, feral, alive. I should fear that look. Instead, I feel it spark somewhere deep, where fear and want blur together.
“Let's get out of here,” I say, the words coming out before I can second-guess them.
Brayden's expression shifts, surprise quickly replaced by that intensity that makes my knees weak. “You sure?”
“Cecelia,” my father warns, stepping closer. “Think about what you're doing.”
That’s the thing—for once, I’m not thinking. I’m feeling. And right now, all I feel is the desperate need to be anywhere but here, with the entire town watching this drama unfold as though it’s their own personal Hallmark movie gone wrong.
“I'll be fine, Dad,” I tell him, even managing a smile.
“You’re leaving with him?” Dad doesn't even hide his disapproval of the idea.
“Yes.” Without a second thought, I turn to Brayden, reaching down to grab his hand. “Can we please go?”
Brayden nods once, his fingers curling around mine with a gentle pressure that grounds me. “My bike's around the corner.”
Dad's face falls, that familiar disappointment etching deeper lines around his mouth. “The board meeting was difficult enough, Cecelia. This isn't helping matters.”
For a moment, guilt tugs at me—the lifetime habit of trying to please him, to be the daughter he deserves. But then I feel Brayden's thumb brush across my knuckles, a silent reminder that I'm allowed to choose for myself.
“I'll see you at home later,” I tell Dad, trying to soften the blow. “Save me some eggnog.”
He doesn’t answer—just stares with that wounded look as Brayden leads me through the parting crowd. The whispers start immediately, sharp and eager, but this time they don’t make me flinch. Let them stare. Let them talk.
Tomorrow, the whole town will be buzzing about me walking away from the Christmas tree lighting on the arm of a biker…right after nearly throwing hands with her ex-husband.
Good.
Let them choke on the story.
I’m done living small just to keep everyone else comfortable.
“You okay?” Brayden asks as we reach the edge of the square, away from the worst of the crowd. He searches my face, and I realize he's genuinely concerned, not just asking to be polite.
“Yeah,” I say, though I'm not sure if it's true. My heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
His fingers are still intertwined with mine, warm and solid and real. “If you want, I can take you home.”
The thought of going back to my father's house, of sitting in tense silence waiting for the sermon he will preach to me about my poor decision making, makes my chest tighten. “I don't want to go home.”
Brayden studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the dim glow of the Christmas lights strung across the buildings. “Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere,” I tell him honestly. “Just...not here.”
He nods, understanding without needing more explanation.
That's the thing I’m learning about Brayden.
He doesn't require the constant reassurances and justifications I've been trained to provide my entire life.
He takes my hand and leads me to where his bike is parked just around the corner from the square.
The massive machine gleams under the streetlights.
Brayden pulls a helmet from his saddlebag and gently places it over my head, his fingers lingering as he fastens the strap under my chin before swinging his leg over the seat.
I climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around his solid waist without hesitation this time.
The engine roars to life between my thighs, sending vibrations through my entire body.
I press myself against his back, seeking his warmth.
We pull away from the curb, leaving behind the twinkling lights and carolers, the hot chocolate and my father's disappointment. The cold wind stings my cheeks, but I don't care. For the first time in months, maybe years, I feel like I can breathe again.