Chapter 2
Grady
Silver Bell Hollow has changed every year I stayed away—new paint, new signs, new faces—but the bones are the same.
I should go back to the ranch. Touch base with Mary and Christopher.
Keep my stay short and civil. That was the deal I made with myself: show up, pay my respects, keep my distance from anything that feels like home.
Because staying is a bad idea for a man who’s good at leaving.
Staying leads to wanting things I can’t have.
Too late, my conscience whispers, recalling the whirlwind with a wreath who literally stole my breath when she barreled into me.
I’m not superstitious, but I know the signs when they hit me.
A woman named Angel, who smells like cinnamon and laughs like it’s second nature.
Silky blonde hair, velvet brown eyes, and those lush, ridiculous curves pressed full against me—soft in all the right places, warm enough to scorch.
I could feel the shape of her thighs even through those damn leggings.
And when I touched her ankle? She gasped like I’d found a sensitive place.
My fingers are still twitching to test the theory, and the part of my anatomy that’s been dormant for too damn long stirs like a hungry beast.
I make it half a block before I turn around and cross back to Mistletoe Mug, cupping my hand around the window like I need proof she’s real.
Angel sits on a stool behind the counter, ankle wrapped, head tipped toward that kid helper of hers—Jamie?—who’s concentrating hard on the milk steamer like it’s a bomb that might go off. The shop glows warm and golden, all twinkle lights and fogged windows.
Angel laughs at something Jamie says, the kind of laugh that starts in her eyes and lands in my chest, loosening the clenched fist that’s been lodged there for years.
I don’t go in. Too much, too soon. I’m already fighting the impulse to barricade her doors and hang a sign: NO LADDERS WITHOUT GRADY.
I turn away and head for the ranch before I break my own rule and go back inside.
The gate’s half-wrapped in garland, same as it is every December. Snow stacks soft on the top rail, the air sharp with woodsmoke and pine.
Christopher is by the fence line of the Christmas tree lot, his gloves tucked in his back pocket. “Glad you’re here, son,” he says when I reach him. “The old caretaker’s place is all set up for you.”
“Not the bunkhouse?”
He smiles. “Mary seemed to think you’d want some privacy.”
I nod, glancing toward the north pasture.
The small cabin sits out there where the trees thin, solid and quiet, exactly the way I remember it.
It’s been years since I passed through, but the sight still hits me somewhere I thought had hardened too much for sentimentality.
Too many winters have come and gone since I last called this stretch of land home.
“How’s Angel?”
“She’s all right,” I tell him. “Twisted her ankle, but it’s minor. I got her back to the coffee shop.”
His mouth tips in what passes for a smile. “You always were good at catching people on their way down.”
“I think that honor goes to you and Mary,” I say, remembering how they caught me on my way down—twelve years old, scared, and half-feral. They took me in when no one else wanted to look twice.
Before Christopher can answer, Mary barrels out the front door in her wool coat with half a dozen pine needles clinging to the hem. She stops right in front of me, hands on her hips. “Is she resting?”
“Ankle’s wrapped. She’s fine.”
“Good,” she says, satisfied for all of a breath. Then she narrows her eyes. “You tell her I expect her back on both feet by Christmas Eve. And you”—she pokes my chest with a mittened finger—“don’t go disappearing again. I just got you back.”
“I wasn’t planning to stay—”
“Then plan better,” she cuts in briskly. “The cabin’s warm. I’ll expect you for supper at six. You can argue with me after dessert.”
I should push back. I don’t. Because how the hell do you say no to the two people who’ve been more like parents than the ones you were born with?
Christopher’s smile is quiet and knowing. “Did you forget how determined she is?”
“Never,” I mutter.
Mary tips her head toward the big spruce in the yard. “Your girl put the fear of gravity into me earlier.”
My mouth tightens. “She’s not my—”
“She will be if you don’t dawdle,” she says, then flaps a hand at her husband. “Go check the perimeter and take Grady with you.”
Christopher shakes his head. “Bossy woman.”
“And you love it,” she parries, eyes twinkling.
“That I do,” he replies, his expression soft as he looks at her.
We walk the perimeter, check the guy lines, and talk about the incoming storm. We add a second stake to the tall spruce that wants to lean into the road. I tell him I’ll lend a hand while I’m here.
He gives me a knowing look. “We’ve had a few local kids stopping by now and then. Good boys, just rough around the edges. Reminds me of another one we took in once.”
I huff out a quiet breath. “That was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says. “They could use a man who’s been where they are.”
I shake my head. “I won’t be here long enough for that.”
Christopher nods like he expected that answer. “All the same,” he says, “you’re here now.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should, and follow me long after I turn toward the cabin.
* * *
The next morning, frost rims the windows, and the sky hangs low and pale. The cabin smells like coffee—Mary stocked the place with beans from Angel’s shop, of course—and the air’s sharp enough to bite.
I’ve barely finished my first cup when there’s a knock at the door.
Mary doesn’t wait for me to answer. She pushes in, wool hat askew, a bundle of energy wrapped in flannel. “Morning, sweetheart. You look decent enough to run an errand.”
I set my mug down. “Morning, Mary.”
She waves off the greeting, scanning the small space like she’s making sure I haven’t dismantled the place overnight. “Angel’s been making do with a little tabletop tree in her apartment. That won’t do.”
I arch a brow. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because,” she says, already halfway to the door again, “you’re delivering her a real one. Something she can fit by the window. Christopher and I picked it out, and it’s sitting by the barn. Go on, load it up before the snow starts again.”
“I don’t think she’s exactly in shape to haul a tree upstairs.”
“Good thing you’ve got two working legs, then.” She gives me that look—the one that’s part command, part affection. “And don’t argue, Grady Cross. You’ve never been any good at saying no to me.”
She’s right. I wasn’t at twelve, and I’m sure as hell not now.
By the time I get outside, the tree’s waiting, already bundled and tied. I hoist it onto the back of the truck, the smell of pine and sap stirring something deep and familiar.
It’s a short drive into town. Silver Bell Hollow is waking up slowly, smoke curling from chimneys, lights flickering in shop windows. When I pull up in front of Mistletoe Mug, the place looks exactly like I left it—warm and golden against the snow.
I kill the engine and sit there a second longer than I should. Then I grab the tree and head for the door.
The bell chimes as I step inside. The air hits warm and sweet—coffee, sugar, and something baked with cinnamon.
Mrs. Crowley sits in the corner, hands cupped around her latte, glasses slipping down her nose as she reads the local paper.
A couple of regulars trade gossip near the pastry case, laughter muffled by scarves and steam.
Behind the counter, Jamie moves fast, calling out drink orders with the confidence that only comes from trial by espresso machine.
And there’s Angel—seated on a stool at the register, foot propped up, hair loose around her shoulders.
She looks up, surprise flickering across her face before her mouth curves into something that feels like liquid sunshine.
“Morning, Grady,” she greets.
Hearing my name on her lips makes my cock jerk behind my fly.
“Morning, Angel,” I answer gruffly, thinking that’s exactly what she looks like—an angel—with her blonde hair haloing her rosy cheeks. “Got something for you.”
Her eyes drop to the small spruce in my arms. “Mary?”
“Mary,” I confirm. “Said you needed a tree for your apartment.”
“She’s relentless.”
“She’s Mary,” I say simply, setting the tree down near the counter.
Angel’s laugh is light, bright, and warm enough to thaw something in me I hadn’t realized was still frozen.
“Jamie,” she calls over her shoulder, “can you hold down the fort while we get this upstairs?”
Jamie’s grin is instant. “Sure thing, boss. Don’t let him drop it.”
I snort. “Not planning to.”
Angel gives me a pointed look. “It’s not that heavy.”
“Still not letting you carry it,” I say matter-of-factly, already reaching for the trunk.
The stairs creak as I haul the little spruce up to her apartment.
The space is cozy, with a sofa, tiny kitchen, and bed tucked under a sloped ceiling.
Mismatched mugs drying by the sink, a half-finished wreath on the table.
It smells like vanilla, coffee, and her.
It’s all warmth and life, the opposite of the places I’ve been.
“Where do you want it?” I ask.
“By the window is perfect.”
When I set the tree by the window, it somehow looks like it’s meant to be there, like this small, cozy world belongs to her.
She hobbles closer, careful on her wrapped ankle.
I frown. “You shouldn’t be on that yet.”
She shrugs. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. Sit.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
“Grady—”
I point to the sofa. “Sit, Angel.”
She rolls her eyes but obeys, lowering herself onto the cushion with exaggerated care. I kneel in front of her, loosening the wrap on her ankle before she can protest.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I say quietly. “Let me see.”
Her skin is smooth and warm against my callused fingers as I carefully test the joint. She tenses, then forces herself to breathe.
“Still sore?”
“A little,” she admits. “But it’s better.”
“Good,” I murmur, re-wrapping it neatly, my touch precise from years of patching up wounds in the field. “You’ll be walking on it in a couple of days, if you behave.”
She grins. “That’s a big if.”
I look up then, eyes steady on hers. “Yeah,” I say, a hint of a smile tugging at my mouth. “I figured that out about you.”
She flushes, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for taking such good care of me,” she says softly.
I felt a lot of things in the Navy—fear and fury, mostly, some version of pride when the guys came home breathing. But I’ve never felt anything like the sensation of her hand on my shoulder. Apparently, neither has my cock, which presses insistently against my zipper.
I clear my throat and straighten, brushing my hands on my jeans. “You got water?”
“In the kitchen.”
Rooting around for a jug, I fill it and pour the water into the tree reservoir. I kneel to tighten the screws, straighten the trunk, and check the balance. When I glance up, Angel is staring.
Her gaze on me feels like a physical thing—hot, focused. It hits dead center in my chest, then slides lower. I hold still, like prey who knows he's already caught.
“What?” I ask gruffly.
“You look good in my space,” she says softly.
Her openness floors me. I have no way to answer without giving too much away, so I scrub a hand over my jaw and ask gruffly, “You got boots you can trust in snow and will support your ankle?”
Angel blinks at the random question. “Um, yes?”
I nod. “You’re coming to the ranch to supervise while I install that damned star that nearly knocked you out yesterday. Jamie can run the register for an hour.”
She frowns. “How long have you been this bossy?”
“Since a blonde-haired whirlwind tried to take me out with a wreath.”
Angel huffs. “I guess I can spare an hour.”
I help her up from the sofa carefully, hands on her waist, because I’m a bastard for temptation and also because she sways when she tests her weight, and I’m not letting her fall.
The heat that arcs between us is molten, a slow burn crawling up my arms, across my chest, settling in my gut like gasoline waiting for a match. Her breath catches. Mine does too.
“Coat?” I rasp, forcing myself to step back.
She points to the coat pegs by the door where a puffy jacket hangs.
I grab it, help her into it, and hope like hell I can keep my hands off the woman who has no idea she’s already rearranging the way my world spins.