Chapter 8 Grady
Grady
Morning comes in slowly, as if it knows better than to disturb a man who found peace in an angel’s arms.
My Angel is asleep on my chest, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other spread possessively over my ribs.
Last night was…
Hell, I don’t even have a word for it. Transcendent? Mind-blowing?
Spiritual?
Yeah. Let’s go with that.
Her hair is tangled from my hands, and her leg is thrown over mine like she owns me. And she does. She fucking does. She made a mess of my self-control, my soul, and now she’s snoring like a drunken cherub who has no idea she upended my entire life plan with one smile and a killer wreath.
I brush a strand of hair out of her face and just stare.
When she finally stirs, it’s with a soft little sound that goes right through me. Brown eyes blink open, heavy-lidded and warm. She takes one look at my face, and I watch it happen—recollection sliding into satisfaction, that shy-proud glow that lights her from the inside.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi, Shortcake.” My thumb strokes the curve of her shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
She stretches and blushes. “Good sore.”
I grin, because yeah—same.
Angel hides her face against my chest like she’s embarrassed, but the smile curving her lips gives her away.
She hums, then pats my chest. “You may proceed to make me coffee.”
I chuckle. “Oh, we’re doing this now? Morning after bossiness?”
“Absolutely. I let you defile me last night. Now I expect caffeine and carbs.”
“Defile?” I growl, tickling her ribs.
Angel squeals and shoves me, but she’s laughing—nose scrunched, cheeks flushed, looking like all the good things in the world I never thought I deserved. But I do. Damn, I do.
I get up because if I don’t, I’ll pull her under me and forget the plan to feed her like a civilized man. I throw another log on the fire, set bacon in a skillet, whisk eggs, and pour batter. She watches from the sofa, my T-shirt slipping off one shoulder, hair a mess I want to tangle my hands in.
I bring her a mug of coffee the way she likes. She wraps both hands around it and inhales. I check her ankle, which looks a lot better.
We eat at the little table by the window, the world outside blanked out in white. Snowflakes drift down lazy and thick, turning the street into a frosty haven.
Angel frowns as her phone buzzes. She pulls it from her coat—where I hung it by the door last night—and her frown deepens as she reads the message.
“Talk,” I say quietly, already knowing that look. She wore it yesterday when a text pulled her mood sideways.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks coloring. “It’s a realtor. In Bozeman.”
I don’t say anything. Just wait.
“I planned to sell Mistletoe Mug after Christmas,” she says, her voice small but steady.
“Go somewhere new.” She swallows. “She’s got a buyer.
Cash offer if I agree to an expedited close.
Above the asking price. They want possession before the new year.
I told her yesterday that I’d… think about it. ”
My heart stutters.
I told myself I’d pass through this town like a ghost. Now it’s her planning to pass through me.
“And you still want that?” I ask, keeping my voice as level as I can. Neutral. Like it won’t gut me if she chooses a future without me in it.
“I wanted it,” she says. “Before.”
“Before?”
She looks up at me, eyes bright and vulnerable and a little scared. “Before you.”
I clench my jaw.
“Before you and Mary and Christopher,” she continues, softer now. “Before Callie. Before Silver Bell Hollow felt like it had been waiting for me to stop pretending I don’t belong anywhere.”
I hear it. The crack in her plan along with the crack in her voice, because I know exactly how she feels.
“I’ve never stayed anywhere for long,” she adds, gaze flicking back to the window. “I got used to being moved around in the system. Don’t get attached. Leave before anyone can leave you.” Her laugh is hollow. “Turns out, I suck at staying. Just like you.”
That last part guts me more than it should. Because I know that script. Hell, I used to live by it. Or I did.
But not anymore, because this? Us? It’s not something I can walk away from.
Setting my cup down, I walk the couple of steps to her and hook a finger under her chin, coaxing her eyes up. “I’m not going anywhere. If you need to think, you think. But don’t let old habits stop you from reaching for what you want. We’ve both made a life out of leaving before we can be left.”
Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look away.
“I’m tired of that,” I say simply.
She blinks, and a tear slips down her cheek before she can stop it. I catch it with my thumb, then cradle her face in my palm.
“You're not temporary to me, Shortcake. You’re not a stop along the way. You are the way, Angel. You’re it. I thought staying meant standing still. Now I know better. It means standing with someone. One person. One woman who makes it all feel like home.”
Her breath hitches.
“Even if you sell the place, even if you leave Silver Bell Hollow, I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.” My voice dips lower now. “But if you’re looking for a reason to stay… I’ll give you one.”
Angel swallows hard. “Just one?”
I smile. “I can give you fifty. But let’s start with this.”
I lean in slowly, letting her close the distance, and when her lips meet mine, it’s soft, sure, and laced with promise.
“I’m thirty-one years old,” I murmur. “I’ve been through enough stupid to be done with it.
Being with you is the best thing I’ve ever done with my time.
I want you, Angel. I want this town that won’t stop celebrating Christmas.
I want a job that uses me up in the right ways.
I want to fix fence posts that look fine to everyone else and sleep under a roof that bears my name.
None of that depends on one text from a realtor about a building I already know belongs with you. ”
Her eyes grow glossy. “Say it again.”
“I want you,” I repeat roughly. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine. I want forever, and I don’t scare easy.”
She leans forward and kisses me again—soft and sweet, gratitude twined with hunger. I kiss her back but pull away before I take it where we both want it. She groans, adorable and furious.
“Shower,” I say. “Warm water. I’ll do the work.”
I haul her up and carry her to the bathroom, setting her on the closed toilet lid while I start the water. I strip like a man who knows he’s being watched by his woman. Her breath catches, and I decide not to be a saint.
“Eyes on me, Shortcake,” I murmur, stepping into the steam. “Come here.”
I bring her under the spray and turn her so her back is to my chest, water pelting our shoulders, steam turning the world small and intimate.
Soaping my hands, I run them over her arms, her stomach, and down her thighs.
I wash her like it matters, because it does.
She leans back into me with a moan that rewires my spine.
“This is… nice,” she says shyly, like nice is an obscenity. “No one’s ever taken care of me like this.”
“Get used to it.” I kiss the back of her neck. “I’m going to touch you a little,” I add, my mouth by her ear. “You tell me if you’re too sore.”
“It’s all right,” she says. “It’s all so right.”
I keep it gentle, my hand between her thighs, slow circles, praise in her ear until she turns liquid sweet, until she murmurs my name and shakes apart in the steam.
I hold her, tell her how good she is for me, how proud I am of her.
I don’t take anything more than that, not after what she gifted me last night.
After, I wrap her in a towel, lay her on the bed, and kiss her knee like a fool. She laughs, dazed and happy. I like that sound more than any sound I’ve liked in a long time.
Her phone buzzes in the kitchen. She grimaces. “Sorry.”
I grab it from the kitchen before she can and set it in her palm. “You don’t have to apologize for your life.”
She stares at me for a second. “Will you… read it with me?”
“Sure.”
She unlocks the screen. The realtor’s messages are exactly what I expected: amazing offer! and fast close possible! and holiday premium! At the bottom, a line: Buyer is an out-of-state hospitality group. They want to ‘reimagine’ the space.
Angel’s fingers tighten. “Reimagine,” she says flatly. “As in… gut it?”
I nod. “As in turn Mistletoe Mug into a brand. Maybe they keep the name. Maybe they just keep the lease and paint everything a color that photographs well.”
Angel presses her lips together like she’s swallowing tears. “The idea of someone taking this place and making it… not Mistletoe Mug? That would be like watching someone take a bite out of the moon.”
“Then that’s your answer,” I say. “Choose the life that’s best for you, Angel. I’ll stand beside you. And if you change your mind, I’ll pack boxes and be the guy who carries the heavy things.”
Her smile almost has my heart pounding so hard, it almost breaks my ribs. “Okay.”
She texts: Thanks for the offer, but I’ve decided not to sell. Her hand trembles when she hits send. When the whoosh goes, she sags like a weight has been lifted.
I pull her close and tuck her under my chin. “Proud of you.”
She’s quiet for a minute before she murmurs, “What are you doing today?”
I press a kiss to her temple. “Going to the ranch house to talk to Christopher. Tell him I’m in. I’ll start with Tyler. He needs something to push against that isn’t his own head.”
Her eyes shine as she looks up at me. “You’re really staying?”
“Yeah. I’m staying,” I say, the truth warm and heavy. “If you’ll have me.”
“I will.” No hesitation.
“Get dressed.” I drop a kiss on her nose. “Then I’ll drive you to work.”
* * *
I drop Angel at Mistletoe Mug, checking that the power is back on before heading to Naughty List Ranch.
I make the short walk to the main ranch buildings with my head clear and my hands steady, snow packing under my boots.
Christopher meets me in the tack room with a lift of his chin and that quiet patience that let me be a kid and a mess and still be welcome.
“I’m in,” I say simply. “I’ll work with the kids who need it. Tyler first.”
Christopher doesn’t smile big. He never does. He nods once as if the ground just got sturdier beneath his feet. “Good. Mary will act like she didn’t know that already.”
“Mary always knows,” I say, and we both huff a laugh.
He pours coffee and looks at me over the rim. “You coming to the bonfire on Saturday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ve got a reason to stand still, finally.”
“Would that reason have blonde hair and a thing for shortcake lattes?” Christopher asks, eyes glinting.
I smirk. “Might.”
“Uh-huh.” He sets his cup down, brushing a bit of hay off his jacket. “Well, good. Mary says she’s got the two of you pegged already.”
“Of course she does.”
He snorts. “She’s already planning your wedding menu.”
That gets a genuine laugh out of me because, well, I don’t hate the sound of that.
“We’ll be there Saturday,” I say again, quieter this time.
Christopher nods, satisfied. “Good. You belong here, Grady. Always did. Took you long enough to figure it out.”
When I step back outside, my phone buzzes.
Angel: Mary wants to do cookie kits at the Mug this afternoon for kids stuck in town—can we rope Tyler into helping?
On my way, I text. Tell Mary I’m bringing muscle.
My life’s been made of exits. But now I’m staying. On purpose. For good. For her.
Because she doesn’t just feel like home. She is home.