Page 12 of Coming for Her Brother’s Best Friend (Coming For Christmas #4)

HAYES

Stetson found us an hour later packing up the last of the linens.

“Can I have a word?” His expression was neutral, not giving any indication of where he’d decided to land.

I nodded, and we followed him out the back door of the hotel, down a plowed path toward the edge of the trees.

The noise of the lodge faded away until it was just boots on packed snow and the faint sounds of ice slipping off branches.

He stopped by a trail marker and turned, the brim of his hat throwing a hard line across his eyes.

“This is where I say my piece,” he said. “Then you say yours. Then we figure out how not to ruin Christmas for everyone else.”

“Fair,” I said.

Sidney nodded and tucked her hands into her pockets.

Stetson’s gaze flicked to her and back to me. “I don’t care how long you’ve wanted each other. I care that you blind-sided me. You don’t get to be my brother in everything that matters and then keep this one thing to yourself.”

“I should’ve told you sooner,” I said, and I meant it. “I didn’t because I was a coward about the one thing I’m not supposed to be a coward about.”

“Sounds right,” Stetson said. “And you, Sid?”

“I should’ve told you, too,” she said. “I didn’t because the second I said it out loud, it would be real. And real would mean a real mess.” She took a breath and glanced over at me. “But it’s real, and I’m not sorry.”

Stetson’s mouth flattened, then eased. “You’re both terrible at timing.”

“I won’t argue that,” I said.

He shook his head. “Alaska.”

“I’m going.” Though I didn’t want to leave Sidney, especially right after we’d finally found each other again, I wouldn’t break my word. “I already signed a contract, but it’s short term. I’ll be back.”

He stared at me hard. “You’re asking me to trust that.”

“I’m not asking,” I said. “I’m doing you the courtesy of telling you what I’m doing.”

A muscle jumped in Stetson’s jaw. “You’re saying you’re with my sister. For real.”

“Yes,” I said. “For real.”

Stetson’s eyes locked on Sidney, sharp and searching, like he was stripping away every layer she’d built—the polish, the clipboard armor, the way she filled silence with lists and orders. His voice was low, even, but I felt the punch of it anyway. “You sure, Sid?”

“Yes.” Her voice held steady.

“I hate this.” Stetson let out a long breath that turned to mist in the cold air. He rubbed a hand over his face, then surprised the hell out of me by adding, “I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would.”

He turned on me, and the weight of that look was heavier than any weapon I’d ever carried. “You break her, and I won’t be your friend anymore. I won’t be anything.”

I met it head-on. “I know. You won’t need to be.” The truth was easier than I expected.

He stepped in close enough that his words left no room for misinterpretation. “Don’t give me a reason to prove I meant that.”

“I won’t.” My voice was rough, but I held strong.

For a second I thought he might take a swing, just to clear the air. But then the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to soften, then thought better of it. He stepped back, conceding an inch. “Fine. Prove it with actions. Not speeches.”

“I will,” I said.

His gaze slid back to Sidney. “Are you telling Dad, or do I?”

“I will,” she said. “After the holidays.”

“Good,” Stetson muttered. “I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that phone call on Christmas.”

We turned back toward the lodge, the three of us falling into step. Sidney counted her breaths, Stetson scuffed ice with his boot, I scanned the path like it was second nature. It felt almost normal, like the three of us had done this a hundred times before, except everything had changed.

Halfway back, Stetson slowed. “Sid?”

“Yeah?”

“You did good. With the wedding.”

Her voice cracked around the thanks she gave him, and her shoulders dropped an inch, just enough to let some of the pressure slide off. Stetson grunted, embarrassed by his own slip of affection, and strode ahead so we wouldn’t have to talk about it.

Inside, the lodge was alive again with firelight, laughter, and champagne glasses clinking.

Harper caught Sidney’s eye from across the cocoa station.

Sid gave her a shaky hand wiggle, halfway between disaster and survival.

Harper fanned herself dramatically and flashed a thumbs-up.

That’s what best friends were for—keeping your backbone stiff when it wanted to fold.

Stetson clapped Rand on the shoulder hard enough to rattle the windows, and their laughter rang out, deep and relieved. My chest eased a notch.

“Breathe,” I said to Sidney, low enough for only her.

She exhaled slowly, like I’d given her permission. “We did it.”

“We did,” I echoed, brushing my fingers against hers for a heartbeat before letting go. Not hiding. Just… choosing.

After lunch, Harper corralled us into the empty ballroom, saying she needed help finding the earrings she’d taken off the night before. It was a lie. “I need a quick status check,” she demanded. “Are we in love yet, or still pretending?”

Sidney gave her an icy look that could have frozen the lake solid. I bought us a few extra seconds with humor. “Your father-in-law thinks the prime rib was overcooked.”

Harper rolled her eyes. “Deflection. That’s a yes. You look happy, Sid.”

“Terrified,” Sidney admitted.

“That’s a kind of happy.” Harper hugged us both, then bolted off to wrangle her younger cousins, leaving the hush behind her.

The ballroom smelled faintly of wax and pine and champagne ghosts. Through the windows, the mountain wore a dusk-blue shadow.

“I should pack up my bins,” Sidney said.

“I’ll help.”

We worked in silence, stacking table numbers, folding velvet runners, taping boxes. Domestic. Ordinary. A relief. When our hands met over the last piece of tape, I held her gaze. “We have a window.”

“For what?”

“Dinner,” I said. “My cabin. No lobby. No clipboards. Just us.”

Her heart showed in the quick lift of her chest. She hesitated a fraction too long, then agreed. “Seven?”

“Seven,” I repeated, the word feeling like a foothold on solid ground.

The path to my cabin glittered with ice, the sky deepening violet overhead. I opened the door before she could knock. Warmth and the scent of stew and wood smoke spilled out.

“You cooked,” she said, surprised.

“That’s a big word for keeping something warm that I ordered from the grille,” I said.

We ate with our knees nearly touching. Talked about Mama Mae’s Christmas call and the update on how all of my foster brothers were doing. When the bowls were empty, I finally said what I’d been carrying with me all day.

“I love you, Sidney Kincaid.” I hadn’t said those three words to anyone since my parents passed and I’d found myself in a never-ending string of foster homes.

When I ended up at Mama Mae’s, I felt it but had never had the balls to say it out loud.

Love could make a man weak. Caring about someone else meant putting yourself out there and giving the powers that be the ability to take everything away.

But with Sidney, it was worth it. Watching her pour herself into the weekend and take a chance on building the life she wanted had given me the courage to do the same.

She asked about Alaska and what would come next. I gave her the truth, that I’d come back. That I’d stay long enough for us to figure out what after looked like. And longer if she wanted me to.

“I do,” she said, and the ground steadied under us both. “I love you too, Hayes.”

I was about to pull her into my arms and show her exactly how much she meant to me when a knock landed on the door.

Stetson stood there, hat in hand, the tips of his ears pink from the cold. “I’m not good at apologizing.”

“Same,” I answered. “So we’ll keep it short.”

He nodded. “I don’t like it. But I’ll try not to be an ass about it. Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t,” I said, and meant it.

“Tomorrow,” he added, backing away. “Breakfast. Like normal people. No sneaking around.”

“We’ll be there,” Sidney promised.

He touched the brim of his hat and left, his boots crunching down the path.

I closed the door after him and looked at Sidney. “Are you okay?”

“Getting there,” she said.

“Come here.”

She did. Our foreheads met, and our fingers intertwined. “Inviting me over for dinner was a good idea,” she murmured.

“I have one occasionally.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

I laughed, quiet, the sound loosening something under my ribs. Outside, the mountain night pressed close. Inside, we took one more step toward the life we’d both chosen. A life with each other.