“Oh, honey, you should see how we decorated the lodge for Christmas. It’s beautiful. Sandra was over the moon when I told her you were coming too. I’m still worried about you and Clay making the drive, though. Have you seen the news? They’re saying six to eight inches of snow. With the wind, they’re saying whiteout conditions.”
I pinch my eyes shut. Great. As if I needed another reason to stress. I should be thankful I’m not driving alone, but the thought of being stuck in a car with Clay for hours makes my stomach twist. If the storm doesn’t kill us, the silence might.
I twist the cap off my lip gloss, swipe it on, and blot my lips together. That’s when two sharp knocks sound at the door.
“Shit.” I fumble with the phone. “I think Clay’s here.”
Mom is still carrying on, something about baking for Christmas, but I barely hear her. My hand lingers on the doorknob, my pulse drumming loud in my ears. I let out a long breath, every nerve ending lit up.
Don’t be stupid, Tessa. It’s just Clay.
Except it isn’t. Not to me. Not since that night.
I pull the door open, and there he is. Clay.
He looks nothing like the drunk man I remember slumped on the sidewalk that night. He’s sharp in a black suit and red tie, the kind of put-together that makes you feel messy just by standing in front of him. His dark hair is longer now, brushed back at the sides with one careless wave falling forward. His jaw is tight,the lines clean, dusted with the start of a shadow that somehow makes him look older and even more handsome.
The memory hits me before I can stop it—his mouth on mine, the heat of his body pinning me to the wall. A single night I can’t forget, even if he’s made sure to act like it never happened. We haven’t spoken since, which makes it impossible not to wonder if he regrets it. Or worse—if he resents me for it.
“Are you ready to go?” His even voice is clipped. But his eyes flick past me into the room, catching on the pile of laundry on my bed and my suitcase sitting next to it. The tic in his jaw tells me what he thinks of my answer before I even give it.
“Actually, I am,” I say quickly, too brightly. “Just need to grab a couple of things, and I’ll be ready.”
He nods once, sliding his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t step inside and doesn’t lean against the wall. He just stands there like a wall himself while I scurry around the room, tossing stray clothes and toiletries into my duffel. Every rustle of fabric feels louder under his silence. Every trip from the desk to the bed makes my skin prickle.
My mom is still in my ear, her voice muffled as she goes on about Dad’s unspoken competition with the neighbor over whose yard decorations will win Christmas bragging rights. I hold the phone away from my face, biting down on my lip to keep from snapping. The weight of Clay’s gaze on my back makes me hyperaware of everything—every time I trip over my own shoes, how cluttered the room looks, how much of a mess I must seem to him.
And somehow, that bothers me more than it should.
“Mom, I’m sorry, I have to let you go,” I cut in before she launches into another story. “Clay just got here, and if we’re going to beat this storm, we need to leave.”
“All right, honey. Text me updates, okay? And tell Clay to drive carefully.”
“Will do.” I don’t give her the chance to add anything else. My thumb hits End, and I drop the phone into my purse with a sigh of relief.
When I glance back at Clay, he hasn’t moved. His expression hasn’t shifted either—that tic is still there, the tiny clench of his jaw, his gaze cool and unreadable. It makes my stomach knot. Like maybe he’s already regretting saying yes to this trip. Like driving me home is more of a chore than a favor.
I zip the suitcase in one firm tug and wrestle it behind me, the wheels thunking against the floor. “Okay.” My voice comes out thinner than I mean for it to. “I think I’m ready.”
“You think?” His reply is quiet, but the edge in it is unmistakable.
My teeth catch on the inside of my cheek as I sweep the room, trying to see it through his eyes. The TV clicks dark, my half-packed laundry basket slumps in the corner, makeup litters the desk, and my roommate’s scarves spill over the chair in a tangled heap. Not exactly the picture of a responsible adult.
Clay doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He just steps around the mess like it isn’t there, bends, and grabs the handle of my suitcase. His hand brushes mine in the process—barely anything, but it jolts through me all the same. I hate that after all this time, after all the silence, he can still get to me with the slightest touch.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shooting me a look as he hefts the suitcase. “You moving back home or just visiting?”
I flash him a grin—the kind I know irritates him most. “It’s Christmas, Clay. A girl needs options.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before I gasp, “Ah, crap! My dress for the Christmas gala. I can’t forget it.”
His gaze cuts to me, sharp and quick. “Grab whatever else you need. I’ll get your suitcase in the car. Meet me outside.” His clipped tone leaves me no room to argue.
He doesn’t bother with the pull handle. He just lifts the suitcase straight off the ground like it’s nothing and strides out the door without another glance.
I blow out a breath and head for the closet, pushing through the hangers until my fingers land on the soft red fabric. My best friend and boss, Kylie, wore it once to a wedding before offering it to me when I admitted I couldn’t afford anything decent. With finals already eating into my shifts, she waved me off, told me to just come grab it, and winked that it wasguaranteed to get me noticed.
It’s an off-the-shoulder deep red velvet that hugs my body in all the right places. I told Kylie I wanted it because it was perfect for the Christmas gala. But deep down, I know the truth—I wanted it because I hoped Clay would be there.
