Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Riley
Christmas morning at the Monroe house was controlled chaos, as always.
Riley woke to the sound of her nephews thundering down the stairs at what her phone informed her was six forty-seven in the morning. She groaned, pulled a pillow over her head, and tried to remember why she'd agreed to sleep in her childhood bedroom instead of getting a hotel.
Then she heard her mother's laugh from downstairs, warm and familiar, and remembered.
This. She'd missed this.
By seven-thirty, the entire family was crowded in the living room in various states of consciousness.
Her dad was making coffee in the kitchen, the machine gurgling and hissing like it did every Christmas morning.
Her mom was trying to organize the present distribution with the efficiency of a military operation, sorting wrapped packages into piles according to some system only she understood.
The kids were vibrating with barely contained excitement, whispering loudly to each other about what might be in the biggest boxes.
Riley found herself wedged on the couch between Lily and Tyler, watching the chaos unfold with a cup of coffee and a sense of contentment she hadn't felt in years.
Her dad's coffee was too strong, the way it always was on Christmas.
The living room was too warm from the fireplace and too many bodies crammed into one space.
Jake was already trying to peek at name tags while his little brother informed everyone loudly that Santa had definitely come because the cookies were gone.
It was perfect.
"You're smiling," Lily observed, nudging Riley's shoulder.
"Am I not allowed to smile?"
"You're allowed. It's just unusual for you on Christmas morning. Usually you're grumpy until at least noon."
"I've matured."
"You're thinking about Grant."
Riley felt her face heat. "I'm not—"
"You absolutely are. You have that look."
"What look?"
"That 'I'm going to see my boyfriend in a few hours and I can barely stand the wait' look." Lily grinned. "It's cute. Nauseating, but cute."
"I hate you."
"You love me." Lily leaned her head on Riley's shoulder. "For what it's worth, I like him. He's good for you."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true. You're different when he's around. Lighter. Like you're not carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders for once."
Riley didn't know what to say to that, so she just squeezed Lily's hand and turned her attention back to the present opening.
Her mother had a system—youngest to oldest, one gift at a time, with everyone watching to admire each present.
It took forever and Riley loved every second of it.
She loved watching Jake's face when he opened the Lego set he'd been begging for.
Loved her dad's terrible jokes about the socks he got from every family member, as if it was the first time anyone had ever given him socks for Christmas.
Loved her mom's happy tears when Lily gave her a photo album of the grandkids with a note that said "For the best Grandma in the world. "
When it was Riley's turn, she opened a box from her parents to find a beautiful wool scarf in deep blue, soft as clouds.
"For those cold city winters," her mom said, but there was something careful in her voice. Like she wasn't sure Riley would still need it. Like she was already hoping Riley might stay.
Riley hugged her mother instead of answering, and Carol held on just a little too long, her hand gentle on the back of Riley's head the way it had been when Riley was small.
"Thank you, Mom," Riley whispered.
"You're welcome, sweetheart."
Tyler got new guitar strings and a book about music theory. Lily got jewelry and gift cards and a new coffee maker she'd been hinting about for months. Riley's dad got tools and books and—yes—more socks.
The nephews got approximately seventeen thousand new toys, and within minutes the living room floor was covered in wrapping paper and boxes and the chaos of children playing with everything at once.
After presents came breakfast—her dad's famous Christmas waffles with all the toppings. Riley ate just enough to hold her off, laughed too hard at Tyler's stories about his band, and checked her phone approximately seventeen times to see if Grant had texted.
He had, at nine-thirty: Merry Christmas. See you at eleven.
Riley typed back: Merry Christmas. Can't wait.
By ten-thirty, she was showering and getting ready with more care than Christmas Day brunch probably warranted. She chose dark jeans and a soft red sweater, left her hair down, and tried not to think too hard about spending the afternoon with Grant and his father.
"You look beautiful," her mom said from the doorway, making Riley jump.
"Mom. You scared me."
Carol came in and sat on Riley's bed, watching her with that knowing mother look that saw too much. "You're happy."
"I am."
"It's Grant."
It wasn't a question, but Riley nodded anyway.
"Good." Carol smiled. "He's a good man. He loves you, you know."
Riley's hands stilled on her lipstick. "Mom—"
"I'm not asking you to tell me anything. I'm just saying what I see." Carol stood, smoothing her hands over her jeans. "And I see a man who looks at my daughter like she hung the moon. Whatever you decide to do about that is up to you."
She kissed Riley's cheek and left, and Riley sat there staring at her reflection, her mother's words echoing in her head.
He loves you.
Did he? Could he?
Did she want him to?
Riley grabbed her keys and the coffee cake her mother had insisted she bring and headed out before she could spiral any further.
The drive to Grant's farm was familiar now—past the town square with its Christmas decorations, down the winding road lined with snow-covered fields, up the long driveway to the farmhouse that looked like something out of a Christmas card.
Grant's truck was parked out front, and smoke curled from the chimney. Riley's heart did thumped loudly in her chest.
She was barely out of the car before the front door opened and Grant appeared, wearing jeans and a dark green henley that made his eyes seem the same color, almost like pine trees.
"Hi," Riley said, suddenly breathless.
"Hi." Grant crossed the porch and pulled her into a hug that felt like coming home. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas." Riley breathed in the scent of him—soap and coffee and something warm that was just Grant. "I brought blueberry muffins."
"Your mom's?"
"Of course."
"Then we're set." Grant took the dish from her, kissed her lightly, then caught her hand and pulled her inside.
The farmhouse was warm and smelled incredible—cinnamon and sugar and fresh bread and coffee.
Thomas was in the kitchen pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven, and the table was set with more food than three people could possibly eat.
There was a frittata studded with vegetables, crispy bacon, hash browns that looked perfectly golden, fresh fruit, and those cinnamon rolls that made Riley's mouth water just looking at them.
"Riley! Merry Christmas!" Thomas set down the rolls and pulled her into a hug that surprised her with its warmth. He smelled like cinnamon and soap, and his hug was the kind that made Riley feel like family.
"Merry Christmas, Thomas. This looks amazing."
"Grant did most of it. I just supervised."
"Lies," Grant said, appearing from the hallway with plates. "Dad made the cinnamon rolls and the hash browns. I just handled the easy stuff."
"The frittata is not easy," Thomas protested. "That's twelve eggs and requires actual technique."
"Dad, you literally taught me how to make it."
"Exactly. Which means I did the hard part."
Riley laughed, and both Lawson men turned to smile at her like they'd planned it. She felt warmth settle in her chest—this easy banter, this comfortable teasing, the way they included her without hesitation.
They settled at the table, and Riley found herself between Grant and Thomas, surrounded by food and warmth and easy conversation.
The cinnamon rolls were incredible—soft and gooey with just the right amount of icing.
The frittata was perfectly cooked, the vegetables tender and flavorful.
Even the hash browns, which Riley usually found bland, were crispy and seasoned just right.
"This is your mom's recipe?" Riley asked around a bite of cinnamon roll.
"All of it," Thomas said, and there was something soft in his voice. "Martha insisted on a big Christmas brunch. Said waffles were for regular Sundays, but Christmas deserved cinnamon rolls and all the fixings."
"She was right."
"She usually was." Thomas smiled at Grant. "Grant’s mother would have loved having you here, Riley. She always said Grant needed someone who could keep up with him."
"Dad—" Grant's ears went pink.
"What? It's true. You've always been stubborn and particular, and Riley here doesn't take any of your nonsense."
"I don't have nonsense," Grant protested.
Riley and Thomas looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"What?"
"You reorganized my spice rack," Riley said.
"It was chaos."
"It was alphabetical!"
"Alphabetical is wrong. It should be by frequency of use."
"See?" Thomas gestured at Grant with his fork. "Nonsense."
Grant shook his head but he was smiling, and Riley felt that warmth in her chest expand into something bigger, something that felt dangerously like belonging. In his family, the same way he fit into hers so well the night before.
Thomas told stories about Grant as a kid—the time he'd tried to bring a baby goat into the house because it was cold outside.
The Christmas he'd accidentally set the tree on fire with too many candles because he wanted it to look "really festive.
" The year he'd saved up all his allowance to buy his mother a necklace she'd admired in the jewelry store window downtown.
Grant's face went soft at that last one. "She wore it every day until she died. It's in Dad's dresser now."