Code Name: Grace (Jameson Force Security 6.5)

Clay whips left to look out the windows to the majestic scenery outside—rolling mountains covered in white and an impassable driveway down to the main state road.

Now, had I watched the weather before I brought Clay here?

I had. I’ll admit I’d known we’d be getting a lot of wintry weather, and I’d banked on us getting snowed-in.

I also know if I truly wanted to get down that hill, I could probably make it. However, I could just as likely get stuck. But I’m not about to offer him the option.

“So we have to what?” he asks, sounding panicked at the thought of being stuck here with me. “Wait for a spring melt until we can get back to civilization?”

I tip my head back, not able to contain my laughter. When I bring my gaze back to his, it’s with a smirk that says he’s silly and he knows it. “Look… there are private people I can hire to plow my driveway, but they aren’t going to come on Christmas Day. And even if they could, the road below probably isn’t cleared yet. I’m sorry, but you’re going to be stuck here for one more day.”

“Christ,” he mutters, plopping his butt on a barstool. He looks like someone kicked his puppy.

“Breakfast?” I cheerily ask.

“Yeah… sure,” he replies glumly.

I decide not to press him on anything right now. I’m not sure what happened last night after he went to bed, but I’m going to find out. I don’t want to ruin a good meal, though, so while Clay sips at his coffee and surfs on his phone, I whip up some hash browns, bacon, and dippy eggs with toast. I know this is his favorite breakfast because we would sometimes meet for breakfast at a diner in Atlanta during the case.

If he’s sentimental about the food I put before him, his expression doesn’t reveal it. He merely murmurs, “Thank you. Looks great.”

Clay silently eats at the island, seated on his barstool, while I stand at the opposite side with my food. I shamelessly watch him, knowing his unwillingness even to look me in the eye says he’s going to do everything in his power to avoid having a hard conversation with me.

If he only knew how much he’s underestimating me right now. Too bad he doesn’t realize my job is to delve deep into people’s demons, bring them to the surface, expose them, and finally help heal them. He’s not a patient of mine, but I’ve never seen anyone more in dire need of purging the guilt from his system than Clay. I’ve never felt more personally connected to someone who needed to do so, either, and it’s downright selfish since I’m hoping to benefit from it.

When we’re finished, Clay insists on cleaning up. I let him, curling up on the couch with another cup of coffee, intermittently staring between the fire and the Christmas tree he’d helped decorate last night. The star is leaning a bit to the left, but I think it makes it appear charming, so I’ll leave it that way.

It’s the distinct lack of clattering dishes and silverware going into the dishwasher and no longer hearing the sound of water he’d used to wash the pans that has my attention.

Slowly, I turn my head his way to see him leaning against the counter, another cup of coffee in hand as he gazes at me.

“You want to talk this out, right?” he surmises.

I sweep my hand toward the living room. In an overly dramatic voice, I say, “Come into my office.”

Clay snorts as he heads my way. He chooses a green-and-red plaid chair adjacent to the end of the couch I’m on. Leaning against the armrest, I balance my cup there as he settles in. He props an ankle onto his knee, both elbows on the armrests, and places his cup in the hollow his bent leg makes.

We stare at each other for a silent moment. It’s clear he’s not just going to spill his tortured guts without prompting.

“Clay,” I say softly, setting the tone for this conversation. “You and I felt something for each other all those years ago. It was more than just friendship. There was an attraction there. I don’t think I imagined it.”

“You didn’t,” he admits. “But it was wrong on my part.”

“Forget about that,” I say dismissively. “That’s in the past. You have no professional lines keeping us apart. We both know it goes deeper.”

“Way deeper.” Another admission but without explanation.

“I need you to explain it to me, Clay. It’s not fair for you to have negative feelings attached to our relationship without explaining them so I can understand.”

He winces as he drops his gaze to his coffee. I can tell it drives home the fact that by staying silent, he’s hurting me.

He lifts his gaze to mine, his eyes turning steely and determined. “Do you want to know what changed between our slow dance last night and me coming down those stairs this morning?”