Code Name: Grace (Jameson Force Security 6.5)

Clay merely nods, and I pull my car into the garage. We exit, Clay grabbing the small duffel he’d packed from the backseat. After I lead him across the walkway, I unlock the door on the side of the house that leads into the laundry room.

I lead him through a direct shot to the main living area, which is an open floor plan. The kitchen is to the left and the living room to the right with a dining table set in between to break the area up with furniture rather than walls. I set my purse on the kitchen counter, watching as Clay takes it in. When he looks at the wall of glass that extends up two stories in a triangular form due to the A-frame structure, he whistles low with appreciation. “Holy shit.”

“I know, right?” I exclaim proudly.

My property is at the top of a flattened crest that has been cleared to the edge except for some low-growing bushes. Beyond that, wave after wave of rolling mountains stretches as far as the eye can see. My real estate agent assured me this property had the best long views in the area, and I was sold the moment I saw it. I knew I’d be enjoying this view every morning for the rest of my life. Plus, every sunset since the view faces west.

“This is amazing,” Clay says softly, turning to face me. He has his duffel hitched over his shoulder.

“Let me give you a tour, then show you to your room,” I say. “And then I’ll get started on our Christmas Eve dinner.”

Clay’s gaze is wary. He knows I want to talk, and he has no clue when it’s coming.

“Relax, Clay,” I say easily, moving toward the staircase that leads to the second floor. I have a guest bedroom with its own bath up there. The stairs from that floor lead up to a loft where I have a pull-out couch. “I’m not going to bite you.”

Although, my attraction to the man is so great that there have been times in my life I have thought about doing just that. My face flames as the thought comes unbidden to my mind, but hell… it’s not surprising. If anything, he’s become even more handsome over the years.

Clay manages a forced laugh before nodding at the stairs. “How about that tour?”

?

The great thing about cooking an elaborate meal is that it only leaves time for a little chitchat because there’s some level of concentration needed. I had told Clay to make himself comfortable after the tour, showed him how the TV worked, and offered him a beer.

Bustling about the kitchen, I set about making a beef tenderloin, scalloped potatoes, and roasted Brussel sprouts. Clay wrinkled his nose when he saw me pull them out of the fridge. He floated between the couch to watch TV and the kitchen island to watch me work. We engaged in light conversation, mostly about current events and the good books we’ve read lately.

After I put the tenderloin in the oven, I ask Clay to help me get my Christmas tree and ornaments out of the garage. I know most folks like to decorate weeks before Christmas, but it was my family’s tradition to decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. We left it up until after New Year’s, so that’s when I take it down.

We carry several boxes into my living room, and Clay graciously moves some furniture so we can put it to the left of the stone fireplace. By the time we get the tree in the stand, I have to hurry to the kitchen to finish our meal.

In all, it ends up being an easy way to spend a few hours when things had been awkward between us before. I even dare to believe Clay is feeling at ease by the time I call him to the dining table.

We pass the platters and bowls, eat good food, and drink red wine. Just as we’re finishing, I glance out the window. The sun had long set. It was pitch black outside, but I have floodlights installed on every corner of my house that light up the outside. It’s for safety’s sake, along with the state-of-the-art security system installed by none other than Jameson Force Security.

“Oh look,” I murmur, nodding toward the window. Clay’s head turns slightly, and we watch as the floodlights illuminate falling snow. Fat, fluffy flakes fall heavily with none of the playful rolling and dipping they normally do. “Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says. “Not something we were used to down South, huh?”

Clay’s not only talking about his time in the FBI’s Atlanta field office. He was born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida. For us two Southerners, white Christmases were fantasies we saw on TV.

“Definitely not.” I laugh, rising from the table and picking up my dish. “Let me get the kitchen cleaned up, then we can decorate the tree.”