Chapter 3
“It’s Coming On Christmas”
Thirty Minutes Prior
“Aren’t you following them?”
Greyson leaned quietly against the bookshelf in the shadows, still processing everything his father had just shared. “I was never much of a follower.”
“No, you weren’t.” Closing the revised will into the folder, his father reflexively groaned as he shifted back in his seat. “She’s not the answer anyway.”
Greyson’s gaze snapped to Magnus, personally taking umbrage at the slight against Wren. It bothered him that his father’s disdain for Haven carried over to her daughter. Wren had suffered. Girls needed their mothers. His father never cared about any of that.
“In truth, I’d hoped you’d be the one to take over, Greyson. But I’ve never been able to make you do anything you didn’t already want to do, so I’ve accepted that loss and learned to sit with my disappointment peacefully.”
Peacefully, but not quietly. “If you insist on dividing us, we all know it should be Soren. He wants it the most.”
His father scoffed. “Wanting something and being able to handle it are two different things.”
“Then give it to Logan.”
“Logan’s a child. I can’t predict the final outcome, but I can guarantee he won’t be the one to take over Hawthorne Fishery.” He coughed and withdrew the silk handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth.
Men like his father didn’t wear illness well.
Magnus was a man of small stature with astounding presence. His bearing carried specific gravity, and despite Greyson towering over him by at least a foot, he never underestimated the damage a man like Magnus Hawthorne the Third could inflict.
He’d been such an overbearing presence in their lives that imagining a world without him was difficult. They knew this moment approached, and they’d all had time to prepare. But it still didn’t feel real.
Greyson thought reality might set in when the treatment started, but his dad walked in and out of those appointments like ordinary business meetings.
And when his skin showed bruises that refused to heal, Greyson somehow overlooked those symptoms as well.
Even when his dad’s bones protruded through his clothes, he pretended not to notice a difference.
It was how his father wanted it. No emotion. No fuss.
His father tucked the silk handkerchief away and shook his head. “I can only imagine what kind of fools your brothers are making of themselves right now.”
Greyson didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about any of this—not his father’s inevitable demise or the selling off of their family’s company, and certainly not Wren.
Of course, she’d been the first thought for all of them. But she would never go for that sort of arrangement. Wren embodied emotion and wouldn’t settle for anything short of love. She deserved the absolute best. None of them were good enough for her.
Soren was as deep as a puddle and far too self-involved. Logan stayed too oppositional. And Greyson... Well, he just never wanted to disappoint her.
Wren needed a talker, someone who loved all that spiritual nonsense she practiced down at the retreat.
She had so many remarkable talents. She needed someone who would listen to her and not try to change her.
Someone with above-average emotional intelligence who would spend every day making her happy.
He frowned as he considered the qualities of a decent man for Wren. As much as the idea sickened him, he’d prefer his youngest brother over Soren. There was just something less threatening about Logan.
“You know, it could actually be Logan.” Saying the words out loud turned his stomach. But Logan always shared a special bond with Wren. Of the three of them, his youngest brother was by far the most sensitive. She deserved sensitivity.
A gruff laugh left his father’s throat. “The day that boy sees anything through is the day I start believing in Santa Claus.”
His father had a point. But if Logan or Soren truly wanted this badly enough, they could make it happen. Wren wasn’t the only single female in town.
“Our name’s worth something, Dad. They could go on any dating app and find a wife in a matter of weeks. The clause only states that we have to get married before the holidays. It says nothing about love.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. “Marriage is a contract. Only a fool would enter one with a stranger.”
“You’re sort of forcing our hands.”
“Am I? Or am I validating that none of you are ready to take on this responsibility?” He shook his head. “Three sons, and not a single one of you—”
“Stop.” Greyson held up a hand. “You invited us here, pretending it was for Thanksgiving when it was only one more way to express your disappointment. We get it. We got it when we were teenagers. You can stop hammering us with all your grievances.”
“And why do you think I grieve, Greyson? Boys are supposed to grow up into men. The three of you are now in your twenties and thirties and still acting like boys.”
As if it had only started in their teens.
“Just because we’re not making a living according to your expectations doesn’t mean we’re not living respectable adult lives.”
Magnus waved away his words. He appeared tired, as if dressing after breakfast and having one short meeting with his sons had worn him out. He probably stayed too prideful to rest as long as others remained at the house.
Greyson withdrew the keys to his truck. “Do you need anything before I take off?”
“I need you to do the right thing, Greyson. One of you has to step up to the plate, or everything I’ve worked for—the sum of my existence—will all be for naught.”
Crossing the room, he dropped a hand on his father’s narrow shoulder and gently squeezed. “We can’t control everything, Dad. The day you accept that, things will become easier.”
“I’m running out of days,” he grumbled, shouldering him off. “For once, you could do as I ask instead of doing what you damn well please.”
On the drive home, Greyson’s two-way radio was silent. His dumbass brothers probably sat at Wren’s, receiving an earful for even thinking she’d go for such a ridiculous plan.
Wren didn’t care about money like some women, but she valued integrity. She’d never settle for some sham of a marriage simply because of a clause in a contract.
“Morons,” he grumbled, shoving all thoughts of his brothers and Wren away.
Turning down Main Street, he slowed his truck as holiday tourists flooded out in full force, catching all the post-Thanksgiving Christmas sales.
Hideaway Harbor was renowned for its winter festivities.
The anticipation of Hideaway’s influx of visitors reminded him to stock up on essentials for the month so he didn’t have to venture into the crowds.
Once the Christmas countdown began, it wouldn’t ease up until the following year.
Like a bear, Greyson preferred to hibernate in his own little hideaway deep in the woods rather than sip hot cocoa, sing carols, or shop the freshly painted window displays like the rest of the townies and guests. Since his mother died, Christmas just wasn’t his thing.
Once the holiday season kicked off with the tree lighting, it meant full speed ahead into Christmas with non-stop events—ice carving competitions, parades, endless caroling, festivals, and firework displays.
There was never a dull moment in their little harbor town around the holidays, which was precisely why Greyson treasured his secluded cabin in the woods, far removed from all the chaos and noise.
Just as he pulled onto the private dirt road leading to his hidden home, the two-way radio chirped, and he glanced at the dashboard.
“Well, that didn’t go as planned.”
Greyson shook his head at Soren’s comment and mumbled under his breath, “Dumbasses.”
How the hell did they expect it to go? And what exactly had they done—blown into Wren’s retreat, interrupted her yoga class, and launched into a marriage proposal?
The walkie-talkie chirped again. “Could have gone a lot better if you didn’t get in the way.”
“I was there first!”
“Only because you cheated!”
“Bullshit. Fair is fair,” Logan’s taunting voice chirped over the airways. “Hundred bucks says I get her to agree to a date by the first of December.”
“You’re on. And when she turns you down because she’s already out with me, I’ll take my hundred in tens and twenties.”
Greyson twisted the dial on the radio, turning the volume off so he didn’t have to listen to their bickering.
This far up north, there wasn’t much of a cell signal, so the two-way was necessary, but over the years, he’d definitely overheard his fair share of personal business.
Soren and Logan should know better than to air their laundry on a public channel.
Most Hideaway Harbor locals still used the rotary phones installed during Nixon’s term because cell signals were unreliable unless standing right below the towers up on Make Out Point, so two-ways and landlines it was.
Recalling those times he’d spent at Make Out Point had him shifting uncomfortably.
It had been too long since he’d had a woman wrapped around his body.
The radio continued to chirp as his idiotic brothers rambled on, and Greyson’s mind returned to Wren.
She likely sat at home. Probably pissed off. Definitely alone.
One turn, and he could be there in two minutes.
What excuse could he use today?
His stare assessed the cloudy sky, but rather than give in to temptation, he blew out a frustrated breath and turned down his long drive.
Shoving the truck into park, he swiped the key out of the ignition. The stillness contrasted sharply with his brothers’ blathering idiocy. He flicked off the radio and paused to savor the silence.
His dad was right. They needed to grow up.
On the other hand, he knew lots of immature married people. Having a wife didn’t make someone a man. Nor did inheriting a billion-dollar company. This nonsense about wives and wills was just his father’s last desperate attempt to control everyone around him.
Despite years of fixating on all their shortcomings, Magnus had never been able to change the nature of his sons.
Logan would always be the intense, overly sensitive one.
And Soren would remain surface-level as long as he deflected anything real with a joke.
Greyson wasn’t as easy to pigeonhole. He intentionally lived on the outskirts of town to avoid expectations, specifically those of his father.
Isolation suited him, and he preferred the quiet over the chaos. Sure, it got lonely on occasion. A warm female body could make the coldest nights tolerable. But Greyson lived by his own rules, the way he wanted, and nothing would ever change that.
Looking up as clouds gathered in ripples of grey like woolen blankets covering the sky, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The scent of wood smoke and damp earth permeated the truck. He cracked the door, noting the tension and salt in the wind as it flicked at the frost-bitten leaves.
The pressure had dropped, making everything feel crisper. If he listened closely, he could hear the creak of bare limbs in the forest and taste the bitter metallic bite of the coming snow.
Before going inside, he checked the woodshed and restocked the timber rack on the porch. Like most Hideaway residents, he depended heavily on fire for warmth.
Once the rack was loaded up, he kicked the snow off his boots and damp cuffs, then carried a few logs inside.
The house was cold because he’d crashed at his dad’s the night before.
He twisted up the latest issue of The Almanac, the town’s weekly paper, lit it, and left the woodstove open so the fire could breathe.
While the hearth warmed, he stripped out of his clothes and headed for the bathroom, his body accustomed to the bite of cold that came with living in these parts.
As the heater kicked on, the pipes squealed, water rushing past a few ice chips in the line. Then steam billowed from the showerhead in a welcoming spray. The hot water soothed the tension in his back and loosened his muscles.
Lathering the soap, he washed and mentally reviewed the preparations for the day ahead. Roads would need to be salted. Rivulets of suds spiraled into the drain as his hand drifted lower. His fist tightened around his flesh, washing and tugging through his daily routine.
He should check on Wren before the storm hit to make sure she had enough supplies. He braced his weight against the wall, resting his head on his forearm as he stroked. How long had it been since he’d sharpened Wren’s shovels?
His gut tightened with his fist as he tugged in smooth, gliding strokes. He’d check in on the elderly neighbors to make sure they were stocked up with everything needed to stay warm, then he’d salt a few sidewalks while he was in that area.
His breath quickened with each tug. He should also refill the bird feeders so the wildlife had enough food to weather the storm.
“Fuck,” he growled low, his muscles stiffening as each nerve fired along his spine.
Glimpses of her flickered in his mind, but he never lingered on a single vision long enough to truly feel guilty about it. It could have been any woman’s hair he imagined. Any woman’s eyes. But it wasn’t. It was always her. Always Wren.
“Damn it,” he growled through gritted teeth, trying desperately to picture a brunette or a woman with more curves. But his mind always went to Wren.
Fuck it. With a harsh exhalation, he gave in and trembled through his release. Panting, he let his shame wash down the drain and turned the water to scalding.
Once rinsed off, he dressed for a long, cold day.