Chapter 29 Cece
It's weird how a town can feel so different and yet exactly the same.
As Brayden's bike rumbles down Main Street, I find myself searching for changes in San Salona like I'm on some kind of scavenger hunt.
The Christmas lights are strung in the same lazy patterns across storefronts.
Tony's Pizza still has that flickering neon sign.
Even the courthouse steps where I once stood in handcuffs look unchanged, just dusted with a light coating of fake snow because San Salona never gets the real thing.
But I'm different. The woman who left here a year ago is gone.
I tighten my grip around Brayden's waist as he slows at a stoplight, his body against mine still sending shivers through me even after all this time. His hand covers mine briefly, a silent question checking if I'm okay. I squeeze back, letting him know I am. Mostly.
Coming back to San Salona for Christmas wasn't my idea. I was content to spend the holiday in our cozy apartment above Petal & Thorn, my new flower shop in Carlsbad. But my father's invitation—more of a plea, really—was something I couldn't ignore. Not after everything that's happened.
“You doing alright back there, princess?” Brayden calls over his shoulder as we pass the “Welcome to San Salona” sign.
“I'm good,” I call back, leaning closer to his leather-clad back. “Just strange being back.”
The town feels smaller somehow, like I've outgrown it. A year can change so much. I've built a life 90 miles away that feels more authentic than all the years I lived in this town.
We cruise past the newly renovated town hall, where a “Happy Holidays” banner flaps in the December breeze.
No sign of the Kincaid name anywhere. After Ethan's conviction, his father's resignation was swift and silent.
Twenty-five years behind bars for attempted kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, and a laundry list of other charges that made my stomach turn during the trial.
I still remember the hollow look in Ethan's eyes when the verdict came down, like he couldn't believe his family name hadn't saved him.
Nobody has seen Richard Kincaid since he cleaned out his office and disappeared. Rumor has it he moved to Arizona or maybe Florida—somewhere he could reinvent himself without the stain of his son's crimes following him.
San Salona has moved on without the Kincaids, though. That much is clear as we pass the newly elected Mayor Ortiz's campaign signs still taped to light posts. The town didn't implode without its royal family, despite what everyone feared. Life just...continued.
Brayden guides his bike toward my father's church, the familiar white steeple rising above the tree line.
My stomach tightens with each block we get closer.
I've only seen my father twice since we moved to Carlsbad—both times he came to visit us.
This will be my first time back in his church since the Christmas Eve service last year, when he surprised everyone by practically canonizing Brayden from the pulpit.
Brayden pulls into the church parking lot, the bike's engine echoing against the empty space before he cuts it off. I slide off the back, removing my helmet and shaking out my hair while looking around.
“That's weird,” I say, scanning the deserted lot. “Dad said he'd be here waiting for us.”
Brayden props the bike on its stand and gets off, stretching his long frame after the ride. “Maybe he's inside already?”
I approach the main doors and tug on the handle. Locked. I try the other door with the same result. Through the glass, I can see the empty foyer, no lights on except for the safety fixtures.
“That's...strange.” I pull my phone from my pocket, an uneasy feeling creeping up my spine. I haven't been gone so long that I've forgotten my father's obsession with punctuality. The Reverend Thomas Montgomery is never late, especially not when he's expecting company.
I dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I switch to texting instead.
Dad, we're at the church but it's locked. Where are you?
Brayden comes to stand beside me, his arm sliding around my waist. “Everything okay?”
“I don't know. He's not answering his phone.”
We wait in the chilly December air for a few minutes before my phone finally buzzes.
Mrs. Holloway was taken to the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
I read the message again, concern trickling through me. Mrs. Holloway has been my father's right hand at the church for as long as I can remember. She's well into her seventies now, and the thought of her in the hospital sends a pang through my chest.
My phone buzzes again with another text from my father:
Use the side entrance code: 1225. Make yourselves comfortable. I shouldn't be more than an hour.
“Everything okay?” Brayden asks, peering over my shoulder at the message.
“Mrs. Holloway's in the hospital. Dad's there with her.” I show him the text. “He says we should let ourselves in through the side door.”
Brayden nods, already lifting our bags from the bike's storage compartment. “Lead the way, princess.”
We circle around to the side entrance, our boots crunching on the gravel path. The familiar keypad greets me, and I can't help but smile at the code. 1225—December 25th. My father's security measures have always been more sentimental than secure.
The lock clicks, and I push the door open into the darkened hallway that leads past my father's office to the fellowship hall. The church smells exactly as I remember—old hymnals, lemon polish, and the lingering scent of coffee from the perpetually brewing pot in the kitchen.
“Home sweet home,” I murmur, flicking on lights as we move through the corridor.
“But it looks so different,” I say, stopping in my tracks as we reach the hallway that opens into the sanctuary. I flick on the lights, illuminating the space that's both familiar and foreign. “When did all this happen?”
Where there was once a simple wooden pulpit and a piano, there's now a sleek stage with a drum kit and several microphone stands. Professional lighting rigs hang from the ceiling, and mounted screens flank either side of the altar area.
“Looks like your dad finally dragged the church into the 21st century,” Brayden remarks.
“This is...” I walk further into the sanctuary, running my fingers along the edge of what appears to be a brand-new keyboard.
“Dad fought for this for years. Richard Kincaid always insisted the church remain traditional. No amplification beyond the basic microphone system, no drums, definitely no screens.”
“Guess your dad finally got his way.” Brayden fiddles with one of the switches, causing a light to flicker above the stage.
I walk down the center aisle, toward the alter. The podium sits in the center with the band’s setup flanking him on both sides. Christmas trees line the stage, brightly lit with a rainbow of colors.
I'm still taking in all the changes when I feel strong arms circle my waist from behind. Brayden's chest presses against my back, his warmth seeping through my riding jacket as his chin comes to rest on my shoulder.
“Not very often that we have an entire church to ourselves, princess,” he murmurs.
His lips brush against my neck, and I catch his meaning immediately. The thought should scandalize me—this is my father's church, for heaven's sake—but instead, a delicious heat unfurls in my belly. A year with Brayden has certainly changed me in ways my former self wouldn't recognize.
“Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?” I ask, leaning back into him as his hands slip beneath the hem of my jacket.
“Just saying we've got at least an hour before your dad gets back,” he whispers, his fingers tracing circles on my hip bones. “Seems like a shame to waste it.”
I should say no. I should remind him that this is a church, that my father could return early, that this is absolutely crossing a line. Instead, I turn in his arms and press a quick kiss to his lips.
“Come with me,” I say, taking his hand and leading him toward the back of the sanctuary where a narrow staircase winds up to the balcony.
“Where are we going?” he asks, though the slight curve of his mouth makes it clear he isn’t all that concerned about the destination.
The stairs creak beneath our weight as we ascend to the balcony where the choir usually sits during special services.
Up here, we're hidden from view of the main entrance, tucked away in our own private sanctuary within the sanctuary.
The balcony is decorated with garlands and twinkling lights, casting a soft, intimate glow over the space.
“My father would have a heart attack if he knew what I was thinking right now,” I whisper, turning to face Brayden. His eyes sharpen with unmistakable intent, the gray deepening as he closes the distance between us.
“Then maybe we shouldn't tell him,” Brayden murmurs, pressing me back against the railing. His hands find my waist, sliding beneath my jacket again, warmer now against my skin. “Though I think the Reverend has made peace with the fact that his daughter is sleeping with a biker.”
I laugh softly, tilting my head back as his lips find my neck. “There's a difference between making peace with it and having it happen in his church.”
“Mmm, forbidden fruit,” Brayden whispers against my skin, his teeth grazing my pulse point. “Isn't that what started this whole religion thing in the first place?”
A moan escapes me as his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I lean into his touch, all thoughts of propriety dissolving under his skilled hands.
“We shouldn't,” I whisper, even as my fingers work at the buckle of his belt. “What if someone comes in?”
“Then they'll get one hell of a show,” he growls, capturing my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath. His tongue slides against mine, tasting faintly of the coffee we stopped for on the ride here.