Chapter 18 #2
After the main course, Carol brought out dessert—three different pies, a tray of cookies, and what she called her "famous trifle" that looked almost too pretty to eat.
"Mom, you made too much food," Riley protested.
"There's no such thing as too much food on Christmas Eve."
"We're going to be eating leftovers for a week."
"Good. Then you'll think of me." Carol kissed the top of Riley's head as she passed, and Grant saw something soft cross Riley's face.
She'd missed this. He could see it in the way she watched her mother move around the table, in the way she laughed at her dad's terrible jokes, in the way she let her niece climb into her lap while they ate pie.
Riley had built a life in the city, but this—this was home.
Grant wanted to be part of that home. Wanted it with a fierceness that surprised him.
After dinner, they moved to the living room for what Carol called "the traditional Monroe Christmas Eve spectacular," which apparently meant a mixture of board games, carol singing, and increasingly competitive charades.
The living room had been rearranged to accommodate everyone. The kids sprawled on the floor with their one present they were allowed to open before the big day. The adults claimed the couches and chairs, and somehow Grant ended up wedged between Riley and her nephew Jake on the loveseat.
"First up: Pictionary!" Carol announced, producing a worn game box that looked older than Grant.
The teams were divided with great ceremony and much arguing. Grant ended up on a team with Riley, Jake, and Sophie, who looked relieved to be paired with people who seemed relatively normal.
They were not relatively normal.
"It's a chicken!" Jake yelled.
"That's not a chicken, that's clearly a... a... something else," Riley argued, squinting at Grant's drawing.
"It's a rooster," Grant said.
"How is that different from a chicken?"
"One crows, one doesn't."
"They're the same bird!"
"Technically—" Sophie started.
"ROOSTER!" Jake shouted, and Thomas hit the bell.
"Point to our team," Thomas said, looking far too pleased with himself.
"This game is rigged," Jason called from the other team.
"You're just mad because you can't draw," his wife shot back.
"I can draw perfectly well."
"You drew a tree that looked like a deformed umbrella."
"It had dimension!"
Grant caught Riley's eye, and they both dissolved into laughter.
The games continued—Pictionary gave way to charades, which devolved into an argument about whether interpretive dance was allowed. Grant found himself acting out The Polar Express while Jake shouted increasingly elaborate guesses.
"It's a movie!" Jake hissed. "Three words! Why aren't you getting this?"
"Because your uncle's acting needs work," Riley whispered back, trying not to laugh.
"It's The Polar Express!" Grant guessed, and Jake threw his hands up in victory.
"Finally! Uncle Grant gets it!"
Uncle Grant.
The casual title softened Grant's chest. He glanced at Riley, who was watching him with warmth and knowing in her expression.
Later, Carol insisted on carols, pulling out a stack of song sheets that had definitely seen better days. They gathered around the piano—Riley's dad playing while her mother conducted like they were performing at Carnegie Hall instead of in a suburban living room.
Grant found himself standing next to Riley, their shoulders touching, her voice soft and slightly off-key in his ear. He didn't know most of the harmonies, but he hummed along anyway, and when Riley caught him watching her instead of singing, she just smiled and kept going.
This was what he wanted. Every Christmas. Every holiday. Every ordinary Tuesday night.
All of it. With her.
By the time people started gathering their things to leave, Grant's face hurt from smiling and his chest felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fireplace or the spiked cider.
Riley's aunt was wrangling her kids into coats while they protested loudly about leaving. Tyler and Sophie had disappeared onto the porch, probably enjoying a moment of quiet after the chaos.
Riley walked Grant and Thomas to the door while her family said their goodbyes in the background. The night air that leaked in was sharp and cold, carrying the scent of snow.
"Thank you for coming," Riley said, and there was something soft in her voice that made Grant's chest tight. "I know family dinners can be a lot—"
"Perfect," Grant interrupted. "It was perfect."
Riley's smile was brilliant even in the dim entryway light. "Even with Jake making you act out every Christmas movie ever made?"
"Especially that."
"And my dad's terrible turkey fire story?"
"Classic."
"And my mom reorganizing the table seventeen times?"
"Your mom is a perfectionist. I respect that."
Riley laughed, and the sound wrapped around Grant like warmth. "You're too good at this."
"At what?"
"Being part of the family. Fitting in. Making my nephew call you Uncle Grant after one dinner." Her voice went softer. "Making me wish you could stay."
Grant's hand found hers, their fingers tangling together in the space between them. "I don't want to leave either."
Thomas cleared his throat from where he'd been waiting patiently by the door. "I'll be in the truck."
"Dad, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do. Say your goodnights. Take your time." Thomas winked at Riley. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."
"Merry Christmas, Thomas."
And then they were alone in the entryway, the sounds of Riley's family cleaning up and laughing muffled behind closed doors.
Grant pulled Riley close, his hands settling on her hips, and she came willingly, her arms winding around his neck.
"I barely got to talk to you all night," she said.
"I know."
"Every time I turned around, someone needed something. Jake wanted you to play blocks. Mom wanted you to move chairs. Dad wanted to show you his workshop in the garage—"
"I liked seeing the workshop."
"It's full of half-finished projects and power tools he doesn't know how to use."
"Still liked it." Grant's thumbs traced small circles on her hips. "Your family is wonderful, Riley."
"They're chaos."
"The best kind of chaos."
Riley was quiet for a moment, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "I forgot what this felt like."
"What?"
"Being home. Really home. Not just visiting, but—" She stopped, searching for the right words. "Belonging somewhere."
Grant's chest went tight. "You belong here."
"I'm not sure I believe that anymore. I've been gone so long."
"Your family just spent three hours making sure I felt welcome. Making sure I knew I was part of this." Grant tipped her chin up, meeting her eyes. "If they can do that for me after a few weeks, imagine what they'd do for you if you came home for good."
Riley's breath caught. "Grant—"
"I'm not asking you to decide anything tonight. I'm just—" He stopped, trying to find the right words. "I want you to know you have a place here. With your family. With—" He almost said with me but swallowed it back. Too much, too soon. "You belong here, Riley."
"I want to believe that."
"Then believe it."
Riley pulled him down for a kiss that was soft and sweet and tinged with something that tasted like longing. Grant held her close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with pine and cinnamon and home.
When they pulled apart, Riley's eyes were shiny. "I should let you go. Your dad's waiting."
"He can wait another minute."
"It's freezing out there."
"He's got the heat running." But Grant stepped back anyway, letting his hands slide from her waist reluctantly. "What time should I expect you tomorrow?"
"Eleven? That gives me time for the Monroe family present chaos and the traditional Christmas morning waffles."
"Eleven works. We'll have brunch ready."
"What's on the menu?"
"That's a surprise."
"Grant."
"You'll have to wait and see." He kissed her one more time, quick and firm, trying to pour everything he couldn't say into it. "Merry Christmas, Riley."
"Merry Christmas, Grant."
He forced himself to turn away, to walk to the truck where his dad was waiting with the heat blasting and country Christmas music playing softly on the radio.
As they pulled out of the driveway, Grant looked back to see Riley still standing on the porch, wrapped in her arms against the cold, watching them go with something soft and almost sad in her expression.
"She's good for you," Thomas said quietly.
Grant smiled. "Yeah. She is."
"You're planning to keep her this time?"
"If she'll have me."
Thomas was quiet for a moment, then added, "Your mother would have loved seeing you together now."
Grant's throat went tight. "Yeah. She would have."
They drove home through streets lined with Christmas lights, and Grant let himself think about tomorrow. Riley at his table. Riley in his kitchen. Riley in his house, in his life, in his future.
He was in love with her.
Had probably never stopped being in love with her.
And tomorrow, when they were finally alone, maybe he'd find a way to tell her.
Or maybe he'd just show her.
Either way, Grant was done pretending this was temporary. Done pretending he could let her go when the holidays ended.
Riley had said she didn't know if she could stay. But Grant was going to do everything in his power to give her a reason to.
Starting tomorrow.