Chapter 7
SEVEN
GREER
I have been kissed before.
Normal, predictable kissing. Pleasant kissing. Occasionally, there’s been a wow, that was nice kissing.
But what happened out there in the storm wasn’t kissing.
It was as if my world was turned completely upside down and then up again. Even more right than before.
I stumble into the lodge lobby on half-frozen legs while Mason jogs ahead to report in.
The warmth hits my face in a rush, but my body doesn’t thaw.
Not really. My nerves are still crackling from where Brenton touched me.
Held me. Pinned me against a cabin wall while snow fell around us like confetti in a fever dream.
“Greer?” Holt calls from the desk. “Are you okay? You look like you got windblasted into another dimension.”
“I’m fine,” I say, which is bold given that my voice cracks on the last syllable.
Holt squints. His eyes flick to my lips. He frowns. “Did…did the blizzard kiss you?”
I drop my bag on the counter. “No.”
“Greer.”
I glare at him. He stares back. His eyebrows rise. I cave instantly.
“Possibly,” I whisper.
He inhales sharply. “Was it Brenton or an aggressively affectionate snowman?”
I shoot him a murderous look.
“Okay, okay,” he says, backing up with his hands in the air. “I won’t pry. I will simply stand here internally screaming.”
Before he can fully ramp up his commentary, Emily hurries over.
“Greer, thank goodness,” she says. “We have a guest convinced their radiator is ‘possessed by the spirit of a vengeful elf.’ They want a manager.”
I blink. “Of course they do.”
The next twenty minutes are chaos: the elf situation, the cocoa station meltdown, someone yelling about the draft near the lodge library, a small argument over sleigh ride sign-ups, and Holt tripping on tinsel.
I’m juggling all of it, plastering on my Work Greer smile.
But inside? I’m replaying the kiss. His hands braced on either side of my face. The soft growl in his throat when I tugged him closer. The way he looked at me after like he was surprised and hungry and a little terrified.
I’m so lost in thought while restocking cocoa packets that I don’t notice the sudden hush behind me.
“Oh my God,” Holt whispers. “It’s here.”
I turn.
On the counter outside the staff mail cubbies sits a small, rectangular package. Wrapped in brown paper. Red string.
My name written in tidy cursive.
Secret Santa Gift #3.
My heart drops into my stomach.
“It’s early,” Emily whispers. “Is that allowed?”
“No rule says it isn’t,” Holt says. “But the timing is chef’s kiss suspicious.”
I glare at both of them. “We are not doing this.”
But I’m already walking toward the package.
My hands shake when I pick it up.
It’s heavier than the notebook. Not big. Not obvious. Just…important.
I untie the string. The bow slips apart like it was waiting for my fingers.
Inside the box is—
Oh.
Oh no.
A delicate ornament. Porcelain painted to look like a tiny planner with green edges and gold accents. The year written in looping script at the bottom.
It’s exquisite. It’s personal.
It’s a punch straight to the heart.
My throat closes.
There’s a folded note tucked inside.
For the things you’re building. For the life you’re allowed to choose. For everything you haven’t let yourself believe in yet.
I press a hand to my mouth.
Because these words…These words know me. These words see me.
Holt makes a choked sound. “That is—Greer, that is…romantic.”
I blink rapidly, trying not to cry. Not here. Not now.
“Do you know what this means?” Holt asks.
“It means my Santa has excellent taste,” I say, voice thin.
“It means your Santa is in love with you.”
“Holt.”
“Yes, Greer. Love. L-O-V-E.”
I close the box gently, clutching it to my chest.
This is too much. Too vulnerable. Too intimate.
And I kissed Brenton in a snowstorm. And that was too much, too vulnerable, too intimate.
And suddenly all of it—the kiss, the gift, the notes—blurs together until I can’t separate them. My Santa feels like Brenton. Brenton feels like my Santa. The way he looked at me. The way he held me. The way he said he wasn’t done with last night.
But what if I’m imagining that? What if I’m confusing hope and reality? What if Brenton is just being kind and the Santa is someone else entirely?
What if I am setting myself up for heartbreak?
I sink onto the nearest chair.
“You okay?” Holt asks gently.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Before he can reply, the lobby doors swing open with a gust of cold wind.
Brenton steps in.
I freeze.
He shakes snow from his jacket, scanning the lobby with a searching intensity that hits me directly in the chest. When he spots me, relief floods his expression—but then something else crosses his face.
Hesitation.
He hesitates.
My stomach drops.
He walks toward me slowly. Deliberately. Like every step is a decision.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You good?”
I hold up the ornament box without thinking. “I…I got my third gift.”
His eyes flick to it. “Yeah?”
“And it’s…” My voice cracks. “Beautiful.”
Something deep flickers in his eyes. But then—it dims. He looks away for a second. Not far. Just enough to make something inside me tighten.
“Greer,” he murmurs, “about earlier—”
Panic surges.
No. No no no.
“Don’t,” I say quickly. “Please don’t say you regret it.”
“I don’t,” he says instantly, stepping closer. “I don’t. Not even a little. I just…I need to be careful.”
“Careful?” I echo, breath shallow.
“With you,” he says softly.
And it’s so sweet it hurts.
But then he adds:
“I don’t want to mess things up for you. Or make you think I can give you something I’m not sure I can.”
Cold spreads through me. Slow. Icy.
“My job,” he says quietly. “It demands a lot. I’ve watched people get disappointed in me before. I don’t want to do that to you.”
I swallow hard. “Brenton…”
He lifts a hand like he wants to touch me—like he aches to—but he doesn’t.
“I’m not pulling away,” he says. “I just…need to think.”
My heart sinks. “Think.”
“I want this,” he says, voice raw. “I want you. But I need a minute to figure out how to do that without hurting you.”
It should comfort me. It doesn’t.
Because all I hear is that he’s stepping back from me.
Holt, ten feet away, looks like he wants to tackle Brenton with a lecture.
But Brenton leans in just enough that only I can hear him. “Give me a little time. That’s all.”
Time. My nemesis.
“Okay,” I whisper. Because I don’t know what else to say. “Okay.”
He backs away slowly, eyes searching mine like he’s hoping I’ll understand something I can’t yet see.
And then he turns to help a guest with their luggage, leaving me standing there with a beautiful ornament, a bruised heart, and a storm raging inside me.
Holt whispers fiercely, “What did he say? Do I need to throw snowballs at him?”
But I can’t answer.
Because as I stare down at the ornament in my hands—the ornament my Santa chose with precision and tenderness—a terrible realization hits me.
If Brenton is NOT my Secret Santa… there is someone else who knows me this deeply.
And if Brenton IS my Secret Santa…why is he afraid of choosing me?