Chapter 6 Noelle #2
Finding out his best friends, men he’s known for decades and brothers in all but blood, crossing that line with his daughter?
It would be unthinkable.
So I’ve guarded the truth and built our world brick by festive brick to keep us both safe.
Especially after a later attempt at dating turned into a disaster and an ex who won’t leave me alone.
The morning unfolds without drama.
A young couple is our first customers for the day, coming in from the cold to browse for a tree topper, their hands intertwined as they debate between a crystal snowflake and a gilded angel.
Next, Mrs. Ellis, Eli’s school librarian, selects a set of peppermint candies and a small wreath for her desk and reminisces about last year’s holiday party as I pack everything up for her.
I wrap each purchase with tissue paper and twine, adding a sprig of holly as my signature flourish, and smile with a wave after the transaction’s complete.
As noon approaches, the foot traffic outside slows when the snowfall starts to pick up, blurring the world beyond the windows.
I sip my second coffee, now laced with a hint of cinnamon, as I walk around and rearrange the front figurine displays.
The vintage radio at the register hums soft carols, Bing Crosby’s velvet tones weaving through the air. “I’ll be Home for Christmas.”
I hum along absently, my mind drifting to Dad when I spot a set of little elf figurines knocked off most likely from Eli playing with them.
Dad’s fiftieth birthday is in just under a week and I still have no clue what to get him.
Since Eli’s birth, all Dad’s wanted has been a full day spent ice fishing with his grandson and a pie after dinner.
But this year I want to do something different, something to show him how much I appreciate him and how much he means to me and Eli.
But what?
I can’t think of a single thing to do in this sleepy town that we haven’t already done years past.
A subtle prickle runs down my spine, intuition honed by years of single motherhood, suddenly flaring to life.
Eli’s engrossed in his game over by the back counter, stacking his race cars into a precarious tower that sways with each new addition.
Frowning, I turn back toward the front of the shop right as the bell chimes.
I’m hoping it’s a local braving the weather for last-minute gifts to step through the entrance instead of my ex, but the figure in the doorway nearly makes me drop my coffee.
My feet grow rooted to the spot I’m standing in.
Grant.
A monolith against the storm, his broad shoulders are dusted with snow, his dark wool coat unbuttoned to reveal a charcoal sweater that clings to his solid frame.
Time has carved deeper lines into his rugged features, silver threading through his hair at his temples, but those piercing dark blue eyes haven’t changed.
Grant is stoicism incarnate, gruff and guarded, a man who speaks in clipped sentences and lets actions fill the silences.
To the world, he’s an impenetrable wall.
To me, though, there’s always been a chink in that armor that I’ve seen first hand has the capability of coming undone.
He stamps the snow from his boots, the thud echoing like a heartbeat, and lets the door swing shut behind him.
His gaze sweeps the shop, appraising, before landing on me.
His eyes widen a fraction, just enough to notice, for me to notice, before they soften.
“Noelle,” he says, his voice a low rumble. It’s weighted with years unspoken.
My pulse quickens, and a traitorous flutter in my chest has me nearly gasping. I manage to keep myself composed, though my grip around my mug tightens. “What brings you in?”
His gaze sweeps over the shop, taking in the twinkling lights, the silver garland draped around the banisters, the scent of pine and spice that lingers in the air.
For a moment, he looks almost out of place here but then his eyes find mine, and it’s like the rest of the world blurs.
That look pierces through me until I feel heat crawl up my neck despite the cold draft following him in.
“I didn’t know you worked here. I spotted it on the way into town and saw it was new. Stopped in to check it out,” he says finally, the faintest trace of amusement undercutting it.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, and turn away before my face can betray me.
“Yeah,” I manage, forcing a small, casual smile as I pretend to straighten one of the naivety displays nearby.
My coffee shakes in my hand, forcing me to set the mug down before I spill it everywhere. “I opened it a few years ago. It’s been going pretty strong since.”
When I glance at him again, he’s studying me like he’s seeing something unexpected that doesn’t quite fit whatever version of me he thought he knew.
“You own this place?” he asks, and there’s genuine surprise in his tone.
Normally, this is the point where the conversation turns predictable: most people can’t hide their skepticism.
They look at me, young and female, surrounded by twinkling lights and glittering ornaments, and assume it’s some hobby my father funded. I’ve heard every version of it.
How much did your dad invest? How deep in debt are you? Do you really think a Christmas store can survive year-round?
It’s the same song and dance I’ve had to dodge since the day I opened five years ago.
I’ve put my business degree to good use, and I have a section for current holidays outside of Christmas.
But the Christmas stock always sells the most, and our small online store keeps the sales coming in when the foot traffic is slow.
But when I finally turn back toward Grant, ready for that same flicker of doubt, I don’t find it.
He’s not looking at me with disbelief, he’s looking at me like he’s impressed.
His gaze drifts over the shop again, taking it all in with a kind of quiet reverence—the warmth, the care, the personal touches only someone who loves this could create.
Then it settles back on me, softer this time, like he’s recalibrating everything he thought he knew.
“You did all this?” he asks quietly.
“Every bit,” I say, my voice steadier now, though my heart’s still trying to catch up.
He nods slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “You always did have a thing for Christmas.”
The words pull a reluctant smile from me, a ghost of something familiar sparking between us. “Always been my weakness.”
The air thickens, charged with the ghosts of that weekend. It’s there in the way he looks at me, in the way my pulse stutters under his gaze.
Suddenly, I can feel the memory like it’s happening all over again: his hands, callused but careful, tracing fire across my skin.
His voice, gruff at first and then bleeding into gentleness, unraveling into something that almost sounded like a plea as I came undone in his arms.
In the dim glow of my dad’s living room, he’d touched me like he was trying to memorize me.
Every sigh, every tremor, every quiet laugh I couldn’t hold back, he’d been the anchor I didn’t know I needed.
His softness had been hidden under all that quiet strength.
And for a brief, dangerous moment, I’d let myself believe it could be more than what it was.
Grant clears his throat suddenly, cutting through it.
The sound snaps me back to the present, to the shop, to the smell of pine and cranberry melts and the faint creak of the wooden floor under his boots.
He shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I…came into town for your dad’s birthday. We all did, actually.”
My eyes widen as the realization sinks in.
Of course. Of course.
It’s not the first milestone they’ve returned for.
How could I have not thought of that?
Dad’s been wishy-washy about his plans since I asked last week.
It makes sense why he didn’t have anything solidly planned.
My throat tightens as I nod slowly. “Right. His big five-oh.”
Grant’s mouth twitches, a mix between a smile and a grimace.
“Yeah. He’s…making a whole thing out of it this time. Said he wanted to do something special with all of us. You, me, Dean, Cal…and,” he hesitates, eyes flicking to me, “his grandson.”
The word hits me like a physical blow.
My heart stutters in my chest, the air leaving me all at once.
It’s as if the entire shop goes silent, and just the echo of that word rings in my ears.
Grandson.
Oh god.
I can feel his eyes on me, unblinking, searching.
He’s studying me the way only Grant can.
Waiting for me to flinch, to look away and give myself away.
He doesn’t say another word, but he doesn’t have to. The weight of his silence does all the talking for him.
He’s watching my every movement—the subtle rise and fall of my chest, the slight tremor in my hands where they rest at my sides.
He’s looking for the smallest crack in my expression, for any sign to confirm what, deep down, I think he already suspects.
I force myself to breathe evenly. To move. To do something.
My fingers fumble with the edge of a garland nearby, pretending to straighten it though it’s already perfect. “Oh. Well, that’s nice. He deserves something special.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I can’t stop it. I can’t tell him—not here, not now, not when Eli’s paternity is a minefield waiting to implode my entire life as I know it.
I meet his gaze again.
There’s confusion there, but also something else.
Hurt? Doubt?
A flicker of realization trying to claw its way to the surface?
“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “Guess he does.”
I manage a small, polite smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Well. I guess I’ll see you there, then.”
Grant blinks once, the faint crease between his brows deepens.
His expression falters but not in anger.
It’s a complicated emotion I can’t quite name, or maybe I just don’t want to.
“Yeah,” he says again, the word almost an exhale. “Guess you will.”
He lingers for another moment, eyes searching mine one last time before he finally turns toward the door.
The bells chime softly when he pushes it open, the cold air rushing in and scattering little snowflakes into the entryway where they quickly dissipate the moment they touch the warm air.