Page 16 of The Holiday Clause
Most Hideaway Harbor locals still used the rotary phones installed during Nixon’s term because cell signals were unreliable unless standing right below the towers up on Make Out Point, so two-ways and landlines it was.
Recalling those times he’d spent at Make Out Point had him shifting uncomfortably. It had been too long since he’d had a woman wrapped around his body. The radio continued to chirp as his idiotic brothers rambled on, and Greyson’s mind returned to Wren. She likely sat at home. Probably pissed off. Definitely alone.
One turn, and he could be there in two minutes.
What excuse could he use today?
His stare assessed the cloudy sky, but rather than give in to temptation, he blew out a frustrated breath and turned down his long drive.
Shoving the truck into park, he swiped the key out of the ignition. The stillness contrasted sharply with his brothers’ blathering idiocy. He flicked off the radio and paused to savor the silence.
His dad was right. They needed to grow up.
On the other hand, he knew lots of immature married people. Having a wife didn’t make someone a man. Nor did inheriting a billion-dollar company. This nonsense about wives and wills was just his father’s last desperate attempt to control everyone around him.
Despite years of fixating on all their shortcomings, Magnus had never been able to change the nature of his sons. Logan would always be the intense, overly sensitive one. And Soren would remain surface-level as long as he deflected anything real with a joke. Greyson wasn’t as easy to pigeonhole. He intentionally lived on the outskirts of town to avoid expectations, specifically those of his father.
Isolation suited him, and he preferred the quiet over the chaos. Sure, it got lonely on occasion. A warm female body could make the coldest nights tolerable. But Greyson lived by his own rules, the way he wanted, and nothing would ever change that.
Looking up as clouds gathered in ripples of grey like woolen blankets covering the sky, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The scent of wood smoke and damp earth permeated the truck. He cracked the door, noting the tension and salt in the wind as it flicked at the frost-bitten leaves.
The pressure had dropped, making everything feel crisper. If he listened closely, he could hear the creak of bare limbs in the forest and taste the bitter metallic bite of the coming snow.
Before going inside, he checked the woodshed and restocked the timber rack on the porch. Like most Hideaway residents, he depended heavily on fire for warmth.
Once the rack was loaded up, he kicked the snow off his boots and damp cuffs, then carried a few logs inside. The house was cold because he’d crashed at his dad’s the night before. He twisted up the latest issue ofThe Almanac, the town’s weekly paper, lit it, and left the woodstove open so the fire could breathe.
While the hearth warmed, he stripped out of his clothes and headed for the bathroom, his body accustomed to the bite of cold that came with living in these parts.
As the heater kicked on, the pipes squealed, water rushing past a few ice chips in the line. Then steam billowed from the showerhead in a welcoming spray. The hot water soothed the tension in his back and loosened his muscles.
Lathering the soap, he washed and mentally reviewed the preparations for the day ahead. Roads would need to be salted. Rivulets of suds spiraled into the drain as his hand drifted lower. His fist tightened around his flesh, washing and tugging through his daily routine.
He should check on Wren before the storm hit to make sure she had enough supplies. He braced his weight against the wall, resting his head on his forearm as he stroked. How long had it been since he’d sharpened Wren’s shovels?
His gut tightened with his fist as he tugged in smooth, gliding strokes. He’d check in on the elderly neighbors to make sure they were stocked up with everything needed to stay warm, then he’d salt a few sidewalks while he was in that area.
His breath quickened with each tug. He should also refill the bird feeders so the wildlife had enough food to weather the storm.
“Fuck,” he growled low, his muscles stiffening as each nerve fired along his spine.
Glimpses of her flickered in his mind, but he never lingered on a single vision long enough to truly feel guilty about it. It could have been any woman’s hair he imagined. Any woman’s eyes. But it wasn’t. It was always her. Always Wren.
“Damn it,” he growled through gritted teeth, trying desperately to picture a brunette or a woman with more curves. But his mind always went to Wren.
Fuck it.With a harsh exhalation, he gave in and trembled through his release. Panting, he let his shame wash down the drain and turned the water to scalding.
Once rinsed off, he dressed for a long, cold day.
CHAPTER 4
“All I want for Christmas is…”
Sharp Shovels?
“Letyour breath deepen like snow gently gathering on the earth—slow, steady, quiet.” Wren soundlessly weaved her way around the yoga mats and bodies stretched out across the studio.
Sunlight filtered past the tall pines and warmed the hardwood through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The overcast skies looked as though they would flurry.
