Chapter 10 Grady
Grady
Christmas Eve
The day of the bonfire is cold and bright. The wind carries a crispness that bites my cheeks and makes the air taste like snow. Silver Bell Hollow glitters under its string lights, every window trimmed like the town is trying to out-Christmas Christmas.
I spend the morning out at Naughty List Ranch, hauling pallets and stacking kindling for the bonfire, while Angel works at Mistletoe Mug finishing the cookie kits.
In the afternoon we hit the sled hill with Tyler, Nate, and Callie, and it’s chaos in the best way.
Tyler bombs straight down like he’s trying to qualify for the Olympics on a plastic saucer.
Nate trash-talks everyone, then immediately wipes out face-first into a snowbank.
Callie hands Danny to Nate and takes her turn, shrieking and laughing, pink scarf streaming, fearless until the sled spins and she lands in a drift, giggling.
Angel and I double up for a run—her in front, my arms braced around her waist—and we rocket down so fast my eyes water.
At the bottom we bail, tumble into a heap, snow sneaking down my collar while she’s laughing so hard she can’t stand.
I brush frost from her lashes. Her laughter tangles in my chest as I help her up.
We race Tyler and Callie, lose by a hair, demand a rematch, then switch to belly sleds because Nate swears it’s “more aerodynamic.” It’s not.
We end up soaked, our breath fogging the air and our cheeks burning.
By dusk, the sky settles into a deep winter blue that makes the stars look close enough to touch. We return to the cabin, layer up again, pack the truck with coffee and cocoa, and head to Naughty List Ranch where the Maas bonfire is already roaring.
Callie and Nate pass Danny back and forth while Nate says something that paints Callie’s cheeks pink. Cole and Dallas aren’t around—they’ve split for Wolf Valley and Lucky River, both geared up to win their women. No one’s shocked.
Tom and Kitty Sutton are tucked together near the flames, fingers tangled like they’re welded that way.
“Hey, Grady,” Tom calls when he spots me. “Heard you finally stopped glaring long enough to get yourself invited to family events again.”
Angel laughs, slipping her hand into mine. “He still glares,” she says. “He just multitasks now.”
Tom grins. “Yeah, that’s marriage prep, right there.”
Kitty elbows him gently, her brown eyes focused on us. “Ignore him. He’s been insufferable since he figured out how to make cinnamon buns without burning them.”
Tom winks. “Married life has made me a man of many talents.”
“Like talking too much?” I ask, smirking.
He raises his cocoa in mock salute. “That too.”
Kitty rolls her eyes but smiles up at him in that soft way that could melt icicles. Watching them, it’s easy to see why everyone in Silver Bell Hollow swears by whatever matchmaking magic lives out at Havenridge Ranch. Some people meet by chance. Others get ambushed by love and never recover.
Angel leans into me, her voice low. “They look happy.”
“They are,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “Guess we’re in good company.”
More of the Maas boys show tonight—men now, bigger in the shoulders and calmer in the eyes than the half-wild teens Mary and Christopher once took in. They stand in loose clusters, some laughing, some quiet, all carrying that bond you don’t shake off with time or distance.
And then there’s Wyatt Callahan. Broad, broody, quiet.
He hangs at the edge of the firelight like he’s not sure he belongs yet.
He’s a few years younger than me and came to the ranch the year before I left.
Ex-SEAL, like me, though our careers never crossed.
I know that weight in his eyes. I saw it in the mirror before an angel saved me.
I nod toward him. “Wyatt,” I call.
He glances over, that assessing look he gives everyone before deciding if they’re safe or stupid. Then he nods back, slow and deliberate.
“Didn’t think I’d see you out here,” I say when he ambles closer.
“Could say the same about you,” he says dryly. “But Mary told me showing up was mandatory. Figured I’d better make an appearance before she sent out a search party.”
Angel grins. “Smart man.”
He tips his chin in greeting. “Ma’am.” His gaze softens just a fraction before flicking back to the fire. “Looks like things have changed for you.”
“Yeah,” I say, glancing down at Angel. “Guess they have.”
“Good changes,” Angel adds, smiling. “You’ll get yours too.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitches. “Not sure I’d know what to do with good changes.”
I nod. “Takes practice.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “You make it sound easy.”
“Wasn’t. Still isn’t. But it’s worth it,” I murmur, looking at Angel again.
The love shining in her eyes almost sends me to my knees.
For a second, the only sound is the crackle of the bonfire and the distant carols floating from the main house. Wyatt studies the flames like they have the answers to all his questions.
Then he nods. “Tom Sutton said there’s a place for me at Havenridge, working with the other vets. Maybe I’ll stick around awhile,” he says. “See if I can figure it out.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching him drift back toward the shadows. “Reckon it’s about time you did.”
Angel squeezes my hand, and the look she gives me says exactly what I’m thinking. Whoever Wyatt’s story is, it’s still being written. Maybe he’s finally got his chance at a happy ending.
Mary and Christopher stand hand-in-hand, cut from the same piece of flannel, watching their brood. Stories drift up like smoke. This isn’t just a bonfire. It’s a promise. A family you choose.
I rest my palm on the small of Angel’s back as we step into the circle of warmth. Steady. Safe. Feels like home.
Firelight blooms over her face, and something in my chest answers. Her eyes lift to mine, soft and sure, and I can feel the words before she says them.
We set up the cocoa. I get stupidly serious about the thermos spigots—can’t help it—and Tyler and Nate “help,” which is to say they keep things lively and only spill a medium amount. Everything feels easy. Good.
Mary claps for attention. The crowd settles. Everyone shuffles closer. Christopher says a few words—thank yous and the usual safety reminders. Then he lifts his chin at me. It’s not a summons; it’s an invitation.
I step up beside him. “I don’t make speeches,” I say, and people laugh because they know that already. “But I’ve got something to say.”
I take a deep breath and turn to Mary and Christopher. “Thank you for keeping the porch light on. For saving all of us more than once. For letting us come home when we remembered how. And for reminding me that this is home when I was ready to stay.”
My gaze finds Angel’s, and the adoration in her eyes brings a lump to my throat.
Mary’s eyes shine, her mittened hand pressed over her mouth for a beat before she lowers it. “Oh, Grady boy,” she says softly, moving her hands over her heart. “You always were one of ours. Nothing could ever change that.”
Christopher doesn’t say much—he never needs to. He just reaches over, lays a weathered hand on my shoulder, and gives a firm nod. “You figured it out,” he says, quiet and proud. “That’s all we ever wanted for you boys.”
My jaw tightens as I fight the tears I’ve never allowed to fall.
Mary wipes the corner of her eye, sniffs once, then lifts her chin toward the crowd. “Well, that’s enough mush for one night,” she declares, pretending to scold. “Somebody hand me a mug before I start crying into the cocoa.”
Laughter ripples through the gathering, the tension breaking into warmth and applause.
Later, with stars sharp overhead and gold fire flickering over the snow, we slip away from the noise. The cold nips at our faces. The bonfire crackles in the distance.
Angel looks up at me. “I love you.” She says it softly, but it lands solid and permanent.
My breath fogs between us. “I love you too, Angel. I’m not going anywhere. Not from you. Not from this town.”
“Good,” she whispers. “Because I’m staying right here. With you.”
I wrap her up and pull her close until the cold can’t get between us. People laugh and sing Christmas carols. Tom spins Kitty in the snow. Callie kisses Nate’s cheek while Danny waves his mittened fists like a tiny conductor. Wyatt lingers near the fire, a quiet shadow watching the light.
And me? I stand there with Angel’s heartbeat under my palm. Mine answers, and the world clicks into place.
* * *
Back at the caretaker cabin, I take my time because that’s what today deserves. I hang Angel’s coat. Kick off my boots. Walk her backward with my hands on her hips and my mouth skimming her throat until the bed hits the backs of her knees and she sits.
“Up. Hands over your head. Let me undress you.”
Her breath stutters.
I do it slowly. When I peel the last layer away and she shivers, I pause to drink my fill. “Beautiful,” I murmur. “All of you. All mine.”
I strip and her gaze drags down my body slowly, like she’s tasting with her eyes.
Climbing onto the bed, I bracket her hips with my knees, dipping to kiss the curve of her mouth, then deeper. Her hands go to my shoulders. I capture her wrists and lift them, setting them on the headboard.
“Hold,” I command softly. “If you need to touch, ask.”
Her eyes grow heavy. “Yes.”
I work her open with my mouth and hands in a rhythm that belongs only to us—slow and sure, building her up until she’s shaking and whispering please like a litany.
I slide two fingers inside her and curl them.
She arches, gasps my name, and falls apart.
I praise her through it, palm steady on her belly, mouth at her ear.
“Sit up,” I tell her roughly. I settle with my back to the headboard and pat my thighs. “Come here.”
She swings a leg over and sighs when my hands settle on her hips. I fit myself at her entrance and pause, gauging, reading her eyes.
“Take me,” I say, my voice rough with lust. “At your pace. I’m not moving until you ask me to.”
She sinks onto me, slow yet greedy.
“Take your time,” I breathe. “You’re perfect. God, look at you. That’s it… down… good girl… hold there… breathe.”
“Move,” she whispers. “Please.”
I give her just enough, hips rocking, hands guiding, then let her find the rhythm that’s ours. The world is small and exact: the rasp of our breath, the snug heat of her body, the way her eyes pin mine like she wants to relish every second until we come undone.
“Tell me what you need,” I say, unravelling for my woman.
“Harder,” she gasps. “Say I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” I growl, gripping her hips. “All mine. Show me.”
I lift her an inch and let her fall. We find a pace. I make her say my name. I make her tell me what she wants. She asks for more. I give it to her.
And when she breaks, clenching around my cock, she chants my name like a vow.
I come with her, swearing into her shoulder, arms crushing her close, hips jerking once, twice, as I empty inside her.
We ride the aftershocks, breathing hard, foreheads together, sweat cooling. I keep her on my lap because I like her there. She kisses me slowly. I wipe a tear off her cheek with my thumb.
“Hey,” I murmur. “You good?”
She laughs shakily. “Good is the smallest word I have.”
“Say a big one.”
“Home,” she whispers.
My chest does the thing it does now every time she looks at me. “I love you. I’m yours.”
“I love you,” she answers, eyes steady and full of everything.
We laze in bed for a while, making plans between kisses.
We decide on a January Cinnamon & Snow Friday at Mistletoe Mug with live music, cocoa, and s’mores kits.
I pencil in my hours at the ranch. She steals my pencil and writes Angel’s Grumpy Cowboy on a sticky note, sticking it to my forehead.
I leave it there because she laughs, and I want that sound in my bones forever.
Later, I carry Angel to the shower and turn the water hot until steam curls against the glass.
The warmth seeps into us, washing away the old and leaving only what’s new—clean, quiet, and steady.
She leans into me, eyes closed. I run my hands through her hair, rinse away the soap, and kiss the places where water beads along her collarbone.
When the steam thins, I wrap her in a towel and pull her close, her skin flushed and soft from the heat. We don’t rush. The cabin is dim except for the fire still burning low in the hearth, its light flickering over the walls. Outside, the wind picks up—but the walls hold. The fire holds. So do we.
I make us tea while she sits on the couch in one of my shirts, legs tucked beneath her, blanket draped over her lap. I hand her the mug and sit beside her. She smiles at me over the rim, that small, beautiful smile that lights up my heart.
For the first time in a long time, Christmas feels like a holiday I’m going to love on purpose, because it’s the one where I learned how to stay.