Code Name: Grace (Jameson Force Security 6.5)

To my surprise, Clay stands and takes the plate from my hand. “I’ll clean up. You go put some Christmas music on, then start opening the boxes.”

For the first time since we’ve reconnected, he’s standing close with an easy smile on his face. Maybe it’s the wine, or perhaps he sees I have no ill will, but Clay seems to have loosened up a bit.

Of course, since we’re standing this close, I realize how easy it would be for him to kiss me. He would have to lean down because he’s so much taller, but I wouldn’t stop him. I tilt my head back just a bit to make it easier in case that’s what he’s thinking.

I can’t make the first move. I tried that once, many years ago, and had my heart broken when he pushed me away. I’m wise enough now—and educated in psychology—to understand his reasonings. It wasn’t me personally—because when he kissed me back, he was all in. Rather, it was the circumstances, the weight of guilt, and probably a million other things that made it the wrong place or the wrong time.

But now, here we stand, him smiling at me on Christmas Eve, and I can’t help but feel hopeful that maybe there’s still something between us. I’ve never forgotten him. Never even came close to loving someone like him since we parted ways.

It’s why I think our paths crossing again was some type of fated event, and I’m paying attention.

Clay nods toward the living area and the boxes we’d stacked along the couch. “Get busy. It won’t take me long to clean up since you were doing most of it while you cooked.”

“Noticed that, did you?” I laugh, sidestepping him and heading into the living room.

“You’re a multi-tasker, Corinne,” he alleges with a laugh.

I don’t disagree with that. While Clay cleans the kitchen, I put on some classic Christmas music. I open all the ornament boxes, glancing at the falling snow from time to time.

I knew it was going to snow since I religiously check the weather during the winter, and it’s supposed to snow a lot. It’s going to be beautiful tomorrow.

Just as Clay is finishing up, I head back into the kitchen and make us some spiked eggnog. After I hand him a glass, we clink edges and take a sip. The bourbon I’d used warms my belly. Between that, the falling snow, the festive music, and a gorgeous man who has always been my hero and whom I still love just a little bit, I think, I don’t believe I could be in a better mood.

CHAPTER 5

Clay

I’ve asked myself a million times, “Clay… what the hell are you doing?”

Relaxing.

Enjoying Corinne as she talks.

Looking a little too much at her lips while remembering what they feel like.

All the things I told myself I couldn’t have and never would deserve. Yet, in a matter of a few hours, she’s brought me into her home. Without much effort at all, she’s made me almost believe we could leave the horror of our past behind.

“Oh, this one,” Corinne exclaims, squatting next to an open box before the tree. She holds up an ornament that had previously been wrapped in tissue paper. It looks vintage—a miniature replica of an old sled, complete with iron runners, rustic planks, and a tiny little rope I can imagine a child would hold on to. “Mom got a ton of these at a Cracker Barrel we’d stopped at when they had an after-Christmas sale. They were always my favorite. We both loved old-fashioned stuff.”

I take it from her hand to examine it. It’s more than an ornament. It’s a memory of her mother that she cherishes, yet she only wears a fond smile without a hint of sadness as she bends back over the box. Eartha Kitt sings “Santa Baby” in the background, the snow falling harder than ever outside the large wall of windows. The ground is already covered in solid white, and the branches on the cypress trees droop under the snow’s weight.

I turn, placing the ornament on a branch. We’ve already strung up the multicolored lights on her artificial tree. The entire time, Corinne proclaims she’s going to a farm to cut down a live one next year. I can see her doing it, too. She has become a woman who can accomplish anything. For a fleeting moment, I have an image of being there with her.

On a snow-covered hill, our breath frosting the air while we search for the perfect tree. I’d be the one to cut it down for her, though.

I shake my head, knowing those are just pipe dreams.

“Last one,” Corrine proclaims as she pulls tissue paper off a blue ornament covered in silk thread with little beads and sequins studding it in a haphazard pattern. Giggling, she hands it to me. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”