"But better than showing up alone and listening to everyone's commentary for two weeks."
"Much better," Grant said, even though he had no idea if that was true.
Riley's mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You still drink hot chocolate with too much whipped cream?"
Grant blinked at the subject change. "Is there any other way?"
"No."
"Then yeah."
"There's a booth over by the bandstand. They're giving out free samples."
"Free samples of whipped cream?"
"Free samples of cocoa. The whipped cream costs extra."
Riley smiled—really smiled—and something in Grant's chest cracked open. "Some things never change."
"Most things don't."
She stepped closer, leaning against the edge of the booth. The space between them felt smaller now, easier. This was familiar territory—the banter, the old jokes, the rhythm they fell into every December when they pretended the past didn't exist. Except this December was going to be wildly different.
"How's your dad?" Riley asked.
"Good. Driving me crazy, but good."
"Still pretending to be retired?"
"He's in denial."
"Sounds about right." Riley glanced toward the crowd, then back at him. "How's the farm?"
"Busy. We're expanding the north field next year."
"That's great, Grant."
"Thanks."
They fell into the old rhythm without meaning to—finishing each other's sentences, trading jokes that only made sense if you'd known each other since sophomore year. Grant felt himself relax slightly, the tension easing out of his shoulders.
This was why he'd said yes. Because it was so damn easy with Riley. Because she fit next to him like she'd never left, and maybe—just maybe—pretending wouldn't be the hardest thing he'd ever done.
Dangerous thought.
"So I'll see you tomorrow?" Riley said.
"Yeah. Come by whenever."
She nodded, then hesitated. "Grant?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For doing this."
His chest tightened. "It's what I do, right? Everyone's plus-one."
Riley's expression flickered with something he couldn't read. "Right."
