"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 toGrant's farm was familiar now—past the town square with its Christmas decorations, down the winding roadlined 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."
