Chapter 3
Grady
We move slowly to the truck. I lift Angel into the passenger seat because I’m not about to watch that ankle turn on an icy curb.
She lets me without making a big deal of it, which is new for me—taking care of someone without it being a life-or-death situation.
Her arms wrap around my shoulders briefly as I lift her, her breath fanning across my neck, and my body clocks every second of contact like it’s trying to memorize every part of her.
The world looks like a postcard as I drive to the ranch. It’s the kind of clear winter morning when everything feels like it got scrubbed with ice.
Angel sits quietly beside me, hands buried in her coat pockets, breath fogging the window as she watches the world like she’s tucking it all away for later. Her voice is soft when she finally speaks, like a thought slipping out.
“You ever think some places feel kinder than others?”
I glance her way, but she’s still watching the trees blur past.
“This town,” she adds, almost to herself. “Silver Bell Hollow… It’s like the people here actually mean it when they ask how you’re doing.”
“Where’d you live before this?”
A pause. Then she exhales, long and slow, fogging the glass again. “All over. I never knew my parents. I was a state kid—foster homes, group placements. I got used to packing light and not staying long.”
Something twists in my chest, but I don’t speak. She’s not done.
“I was working this dead-end job in Denver when I got the call,” she says, her voice dipping a little.
“Some lawyer I thought was a scam at first. Said I’d inherited a coffee shop from my aunt.
” She huffs a small laugh. “I didn’t even know I had an aunt.
Never married, never reached out. The lawyer said she’d left everything to me.
No letter. Just… the shop. The apartment above it.
A bank account that didn’t suck. I told myself I’d come for a couple of months.
Get it running, fix it up a bit, then sell and move on. ”
“And now?” I ask.
Angel finally turns to me, something soft and unguarded in her eyes. “Now I’ve been here over a year. And I’m still trying to figure out if I stayed by accident… or if I just didn’t want to leave.”
My brow furrows as something clicks. “Wait. Your aunt’s name was… Merry?”
Angel tilts her head. “You knew her?”
“Everyone knew Merry,” I say, the corners of my mouth pulling into a genuine smile. “She ran that place like it was her stage. Loud floral aprons, cinnamon rolls the size of your head, and an opinion about everything. She once kicked me out for putting my muddy boots on the chair.”
Angel snorts, eyes brightening.
“She also gave me a free hot cocoa the next day. Said boys grow out of messes if you feed them enough sugar.”
“That’s weirdly sweet.”
I nod, the smile fading into something deeper. “She had a mouth like a trucker and the heart of a grandmother. Nobody ever mentioned family, though. I always figured she didn’t have any.”
“Same,” Angel says softly. “Until she left everything to me.”
I look at her again—this woman who somehow shares blood with one of the town’s most unforgettable voices. Angel is even more woven into this place than either of us realized.
“Guess you were never really a stranger here,” I murmur.
She nods. “Maybe that’s why I stayed. Because of the people. Like Mary and Christopher. And Callie, the baker at Naughty List Ranch, is a good friend. And Kitty Sutton. She’s married to Tom Sutton.” She looks at me. “Do you know the Suttons?”
“Yeah. I know all of them. Grew up with Tom.”
Angel smiles into her scarf. “Kitty brought me a box of cinnamon rolls the week I moved in and then apologized for the frosting being ugly. It was perfect.”
“I stopped at their place on my way here yesterday. He said he’d swing by the Christmas Eve bonfire. He told me his brothers, Henry and Angus, are married too.”
“You say ‘married’ like it’s an affliction.”
“More like a miracle when it comes to those three brothers,” I deadpan, and she laughs again, which I decide is a sound I’d like to be responsible for regularly.
The drive doesn't take long, but I find myself wishing it did. Angel’s presence is like a warm current in the cold cab—quiet and steady. By the time we pull up the gravel drive, the early morning sun has turned the snow into a sheet of glitter.
She sits up straighter as the big red barn and white-fenced pastures come into view. “I love it here. It’s like a Hallmark movie meets real life.”
Mary’s already outside when I park, bundled up in her oversized coat and signature knit hat shaped like a chicken. She spots us, waves in greeting, and starts toward the truck with a grin.
I round the front of the truck and open Angel’s door before she can try to get out on her own.
She eyes me like she might argue, but when I slide my hands to her waist and lift, her breath hitches.
Mine does too. Her body presses against mine for a half-second too long—long enough to feel how damn good she fits there.
I’m already missing the weight of her before her boots touch the ground.
Taking care of her is already becoming a habit I don’t plan to break anytime soon.
Mary watches with a knowing expression and quiet approval. “About time. I was starting to think you’d gotten lost, Grady boy.” She turns her gaze to Angel. “Morning, sweet girl. Foot still sore?”
“A little,” Angel admits. “But I’m good.”
“Liar,” I mutter.
She ignores me and grins at Mary. “I’m here for supervisory duties.”
Mary chuckles. “Good. Maybe he’ll actually get that star on the tree without breaking something.”
“I heard that,” I say, nodding toward the barn. “She’s going to sit her butt in a chair while I hang the star like it should’ve been done yesterday.”
“Yesterday,” Angel says, raising an eyebrow, “was me trying to be helpful.”
“Yesterday was you climbing a rickety ladder alone like someone who’s never heard of gravity.”
“She’s just like her aunt,” Mary cuts in fondly. “Merry used to climb that same ladder barefoot, holding a wreath and a coffee at the same time. I swear you two were born with the same reckless gene.”
Angel smiles, a little wistfully. “Maybe.”
I gesture toward the barn. “Let’s go.”
Angel arches an eyebrow. “Do I get a clipboard? Maybe a whistle?”
I grunt. “You get to sit in a folding chair with a blanket and make fun of me. It’s a very important job.”
I keep my hand on her elbow as we cross the yard. She doesn’t object, doesn’t try to shake me off. Once she’s settled into the folding chair near the barn, I set the ladder in the snow, make sure it’s steady, and climb with the star under my arm.
It’s a quick job if you’ve done it enough times—slower when Angel is watching.
I secure the bracket, check the topper, and climb back down with cold fingers and the satisfaction of a job well done.
Angel claps once, loud and happy. “Looks perfect up there.”
Mary hums from behind us. “Feels like a lot of things are where they’re supposed to be this year.”
Then she yells toward the barn, “Christopher, for heaven’s sake, get off that crate before you break your hip,” and wanders off.
Angel stands and hobbles to the fence, leaning on the post wrapped in a blanket. She looks up at the tree for a long minute, cheeks red from the cold. “You’re good at making things safe.”
“I try,” I say gruffly.
“You haven’t been back here in a long time?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She doesn’t press. She waits patiently, like she’s giving me space to decide if I want to say more.
And for some reason, I do.
“My folks didn’t exactly win any parenting awards. They were strung out most of the time. Cared more about their next high than whether I ate. When I was twelve, they got caught running drugs across state lines. Got locked up. I ended up with child services for a while.”
Angel’s brown eyes soften, as if she’s reading the pain between my words. If anyone knows what it’s like to be cast into the system, it’s her.
“Mary and Christopher took me in when they heard about my parents. Fed me, put me to work. Gave me tools. Showed me how to build something instead of breaking everything. I joined the Navy after that. Went a long way from home. Came back with more noise than sense. Can’t stand crowds.
Still check every exit when I walk into a room.
Don’t sleep much. Some nights I still wake up reaching for gear I don’t wear anymore. ”
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, bombarded by memories.
“I left here without saying goodbye. Without saying thank you. And I haven’t been back since the Navy.
But I knew that Mary and Christopher still lit the bonfire every Christmas Eve, and I knew it was time to put a few things right.
Thought I owed them that much. A visit. A thank you, even if it’s late. ”
Angel is quiet for a moment. She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t offer empty platitudes or pity. Then she says, “Come by the shop later? I’ve got a sign that rattles and a front door that sticks when it gets cold. I keep worrying someone’s going to yank their shoulder out trying to get it open.”
Her words put an ache under my ribs I haven’t felt in a long time—the ache that wants to make a place better than I found it and then stay to enjoy the quiet that comes after. The part where she’s there at the end of the day to say, you did good.
It’s a life I didn’t think I’d ever have. Not after years in combat zones. Not after the things I saw. And the things I did.
I came back thinking I’d used up all my chances at soft things. That peace was something other people got. And I was okay with that. Had to be.
But now Angel is looking at me like I’m not just a guy who knows how to fix doors and hang stars.
She’s looking at me in a way that makes me want to stay.
I nod. “Fixing things is what I’m good at.”
* * *
I get Angel back to the truck and drive her to the shop. Jamie is behind the counter, measuring coffee grounds like it’s a science experiment.
“She lives,” Jamie says, her gaze darting to me. “Good job.”
I ignore her. She’s seventeen. Teenagers live to be smug.
Crouching by the front door, I set my toolbox down. “Door first,” I say, testing the swell. “Then the sign.”
Angel leans against the counter. “Are you about to fix my entire life?”
I ignore the want in my chest and nod. “Starting with your hinges, Shortcake.”
Angel blushes at the nickname. “Good. My hinges could use some attention.”
Jesus.
How does she make the word hinges sound so damn sexy?
I shave the door down until it closes cleanly. Sweep the back step. Find the loose board, sink in a couple of screws to hold it until I can bring something better. When I tighten the bracket on the faded sign out front, an idea occurs to me. I file it away for later.
Angel watches as she sits behind the cash register. Jamie serves the never-ending flow of customers. When I finish, Angel flips the sign to Closed behind Jamie as she leaves.
“Stay off that ankle,” I order. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“Fixing that.” I pluck her phone from the counter and add my contact with a little pine tree emoji next to my name because this woman makes me an idiot. I hand it back, and a second later, my phone buzzes.
“Grady,” she says, trying out my name like it’s new to her.
“Angel.” I nod toward the stairs. “You need help up?”
“You don’t need to—”
“I want to.” Jesus, those words are becoming my mantra where she’s concerned.
She hesitates, then says, “Okay.”
I lift her. She fits in my arms as if she were born to be there. On the landing, she fumbles with the keys, laughing. I take them and open the door.
Setting her on the sofa, I grab an ice pack for her ankle, flick on the lamp, and make sure the windows lock right.
Angel watches me like she’s not used to someone staying this long. Like maybe she’s waiting to see if I will.
I step closer, and she tips her chin up, brown eyes big and steady on mine.
Her pulse flutters at her throat, a delicate wingbeat.
My hand lifts—comfort or need, I don’t know—and I cup her jaw.
Her skin is soft under my palm, her pulse racing against my thumb.
She’s watching me like she wants this as badly as I do.
My restraint cracks. Not breaks—just cracks enough to make the wanting visible.
“If I kiss you,” I say, voice raw, “I won’t pretend I don’t mean it.”
The breath she takes is shaky and brave. “Then don’t pretend.”
It would be easy to devour her. She’s everything soft, everything I’ve never let myself want.
And right now, she’s looking at me like she knows I could be rough, and she still wouldn’t flinch.
I bend closer, and the scent of her—coffee, vanilla, a hint of something sweeter underneath—almost does me in.
I bend anyway, but I stop with my mouth a whisper from hers, not touching, breath to breath. Every part of me wants more—just a taste. Enough to remember the shape of her mouth against mine. But I want it right. I want her, not a moment stolen before she’s ready.
“Not yet,” I murmur. “Not while you’re hurting. When I kiss you, I want all of you with me.”
Her smile is small and wicked and hopeful. “You plan a kiss like it’s a mission.”
“I’m planning a lot more than that,” I tell her, honesty and a promise etched in my words. “But I’m going to earn it.”
I move away and toward the door. “Text me if you need anything. No climbing. Not even chairs.”
“There you go, being all bossy and grumpy again.”
“I prefer prepared and realistic.”
“Grady.” She bites her lip. “Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me,” I say gently. “Start telling me what you need.”
She nods once. “Okay.”
I pull the door closed behind me and stand there for a second in the hallway. My hands are still warm from her skin. My jaw’s tight from not kissing her. And my chest? Yeah, that aches in a way I didn’t know it still could. Like something cracked open and let in a little light.
Outside, the sky is pale gray. The wind has picked up, and the snow is starting to flurry.
I zip my jacket, shoving my free hand in my pocket. Main Street is quiet—lights in the bakery still glowing, an old pickup idling outside the diner. Same town I’ve seen a thousand times. Doesn’t look different.
But something is.
Because her number’s in my phone, and her laugh is in my head.
That ache under my ribs? It’s not going away. It’s settling in. Stretching out.
I wasn’t supposed to want this.
I wasn’t supposed to stay.
I wasn’t supposed to want.
But I do.
And for the first time in a long damn time, I don’t feel like a man on the outside of his own life. I feel like I might be exactly where I’m supposed to be.