Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Grant
Grant knew the storm was coming before the weather service called it.
He'd grown up reading the sky over Pine Valley—the particular shade of gray that meant snow, the way the wind shifted before a big system rolled in, the silence that settled over the farm when the temperature started dropping fast. By noon, he could smell it in the air.
Eight to twelve inches, easy. Maybe more if the system stalled.
Riley was in the barn, ostensibly helping him organize order forms for the last pre-Christmas rush, but mostly just keeping him company.
She'd been doing that a lot lately—showing up at the farm, making coffee in the workshop, stealing kisses when his dad wasn't looking, fitting into his days like she'd always been there.
Grant couldn't get used to it. Didn't want to get used to it, because getting used to it meant he'd notice when she left.
And she was leaving. January second, back to the city, back to her real life. They'd never talked about it directly, but it hung between them like a sword—inevitable, waiting to fall.
"You're doing it again," Riley said without looking up from the spreadsheet.
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you stare at nothing and look broody."
"I don't look broody."
"You absolutely look broody." She glanced up, smiling. "What are you thinking about?"
You. Always you. How much it's going to hurt when you go.
"Storm's coming," Grant said instead. "Big one."
Riley crossed to the barn door, wrapping her arms around herself against the cold. Grant joined her, unable to resist pulling her close, his arm around her shoulders.
The sky had darkened considerably in just the last hour—heavy clouds pressing down, the first fat snowflakes already starting to fall.
"That doesn't look good," she said.
"Weather service says we're getting eight to twelve inches tonight."
"Should I head home before it gets worse?"
Riley's phone buzzed before Grant could answer. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and her expression shifted into something Grant couldn't quite read.
"Hey, Mom," Riley answered, stepping slightly away.
Grant tried not to listen, but the barn wasn't that big, and Carol's voice carried.
"Yeah, I'm at the farm," Riley said. "Grant says there's a storm coming, so I was about to—"
She stopped, listening.
Grant watched her shoulders tense, then relax. Her free hand came up to tuck hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture he'd learned to recognize.
"Mom, I don't think—" Riley glanced at Grant, her cheeks going pink. "It's not like that."
Grant raised an eyebrow. Whatever Carol was saying, it was making Riley flustered, and that was always entertaining.
"Okay. Fine. Yes. I'll stay here." Riley paused, then softer: "Love you too."
She hung up and pocketed her phone, still not quite meeting Grant's eyes.
"Everything okay?" Grant asked.
"My mom says I should stay here tonight. That it's too dangerous to drive."
Grant's heart—and maybe something else—got excited. And maybe a little nervous. Riley. Here. All night. Just the two of them.
"She's probably right," he managed. "The roads are going to be a mess in an hour."
Riley nodded, biting her lip, something unreadable in her expression.
"You okay with that?" Grant asked. "Staying?"
"Yeah." Riley finally looked up at him, and there was something soft in her eyes that made Grant's chest tight. "Yeah, I am. Of course. Are you okay with it?"
Before Grant could respond, his dad appeared in the barn doorway, bundled in his heavy coat.
"I'm heading to the community center," Thomas said. "Jenkins called. They're opening it as a warming shelter for anyone who needs it, and they need help getting it set up."
"In this weather?" Grant frowned.
"That's why they need help. I'll probably end up staying overnight—the roads are going to be bad til morning." Thomas glanced between Grant and Riley. "You two going to be okay here?"
"We'll be fine," Grant said.
"I know you will. You always are." Thomas's expression was serious for a moment. "You've been running this place better than I ever did, you know. It's in good hands."
Grant's throat tightened. "Dad—"
"Just saying." Thomas clapped Grant on the shoulder. "There's food in the fridge and root cellar. Plenty of firewood. And Riley?" He turned to her with a gentle smile. "Your parents know you're staying?”
"Yes, sir. I just talked to my mom.”
"Good." Thomas headed for his truck, then paused. "Be safe, you two. I'll see you in the morning."
Grant and Riley stood in the barn doorway, watching the snow fall heavier and faster, already starting to accumulate on the ground.
"Looks like it's just us," Riley said.
"Yeah." Grant pulled her closer. "That okay?"
"Very okay."
They closed up the barn and headed inside as the storm picked up. Grant built a fire while Riley explored the kitchen, and by the time the power flickered and died completely, they had candles lit and the house warming from the fireplace.
"So," Riley said, surveying the kitchen. "What's for dinner when you can't use the oven?"
"Grilled cheese and soup?"
Riley's face lit up. "Your mom's grilled cheese?"
Grant felt his chest warm. "You remember that?"
"Are you kidding? Best grilled cheese I ever had. She made it for us that one time we got snowed in senior year." Riley leaned against the counter. "I've been trying to recreate it for ten years and it's never the same."
"That's because you don't know the secret."
"There's a secret?"
"There's always a secret." Grant pulled out bread, butter, and cheese from the fridge. "Come here. I'll show you." He went to grab their camping stove, which would allow them to cook just about anything they wanted, but definitely grilled cheese.
Riley joined him at the counter, and Grant talked her through it—the way his mom had taught him. Mayo on the outside of the bread instead of just butter. A pinch of garlic powder. The cheese had to be room temperature so it melted evenly. Low and slow on the cast iron skillet, not rushing it.
"Mayo?" Riley wrinkled her nose. "That sounds weird."
"Trust me."
They worked side by side, Grant guiding Riley's hands on the spatula, showing her when to flip. She was close enough that he could smell her shampoo, feel the warmth of her against his side.
"This feels very domestic," Riley said quietly.
"Is that bad?"
"No." She glanced up at him. "It's nice."
Grant's hand found the small of her back, his thumb tracing small circles. "Yeah. It is."
The sandwiches came out perfect—golden brown, cheese melted just right. They heated up tomato soup on the gas stove and carried everything to the living room, eating on the floor in front of the fire.
Riley took a bite of her grilled cheese and made a sound that Grant felt everywhere.
"Oh my god," she said. "That's it. That's the secret."
"Told you."
"I can't believe it's mayo." She took another bite. "Your mom was a genius."
"She really was."
They ate in comfortable silence, the fire crackling, snow pelting against the windows. When they finished, Grant made hot cocoa the way his mom used to—real chocolate, a pinch of cinnamon, tiny marshmallows on top.
Riley curled up next to him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, cradling the warm mug.
"This is perfect," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Just this. Being here with you." She paused. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Did you notice how not surprised everyone was? At the party?"
Grant had been thinking about that too. "You mean about us?"
"Yeah. Like, Hannah was thrilled, but she wasn't shocked. Nobody was. They all just acted like it made perfect sense."
"Mark said 'finally,'" Grant admitted. "Like he'd been waiting for it."
"Emily said something similar to me." Riley was quiet for a moment. "It's kind of weird, right?"
"A little."
"I mean, we hadn't seen each other in ten years outside of the annual reunions or briefly running into each other when I visited. You'd think there'd be at least some surprise."
Grant shrugged, not wanting to think too hard about what it meant. "Small town. Everyone probably assumed we'd end up back together eventually."
"Maybe." Riley didn't sound entirely convinced, but she let it drop.
They sat in comfortable silence, Grant's thumb tracing patterns on her palm.
Riley told him about the worst grilled cheese she'd ever attempted—burnt on the outside, cold on the inside, the smoke detector going off in her apartment.
Grant told her about the time he'd tried to make his mom's Christmas cookies and accidentally used salt instead of sugar.
"Your dad still talks about that," Riley said, laughing. "He said you tried to convince him they were supposed to taste like that."
"I was twelve and stubborn."
"Some things never change."
Grant pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You're one to talk."
"I'm not stubborn. I'm determined."
"That's the same thing."
"It's absolutely not."
Grant smiled against her hair. This. This was what he wanted. Not just the physical stuff—though that was incredible—but this. The easy conversation. The shared memories. The way she fit against him like she was made to be there.
Riley yawned, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
"Tired?" Grant asked.
"A little. It's warm and cozy here."
"We could go to bed."
"Not yet." Riley snuggled deeper into his side. "This is too nice."
They stayed on the couch, wrapped up in each other and the blanket, talking quietly as the fire burned low. Grant felt Riley's breathing slow, her weight growing heavier against him.
"Riley?" he said softly.
"Mmm?"
"You falling asleep on me?"
"Maybe." Her voice was drowsy, content. "Your shoulder's comfortable."
Grant's heart raced. He could stay here all night—would stay here all night if that's what she wanted. But the fire was dying down and the house was getting colder, and his bed upstairs would be warmer.
"Come on," he said gently. "Let's get you to bed."
"I’m fine here."
"You'll be more comfortable upstairs."