Page 108 of Held-
Big walks over, eyeing the costume with amusement. “Maybe stuff a pillow in there. You're looking a little lean for the big man.”
“Already on it,” Wrecker says, patting his midsection. “Got two throw pillows from the pastor's office. Don't worry, I'll put them back.”
Cece’s eyes widen. “You took pillows from my father’s office?”
“Borrowed,” Wrecker corrects with a wink. “It’s for the children, sweetheart. I’m sure Jesus would approve.”
Before Cece can respond, the doors to the fellowship hall swing open, and I turn to see Reverend Montgomery striding in with purpose. He stops dead in his tracks when he spots Wrecker in the too-small Santa suit, his expression cycling through shock, confusion, and something that might be reluctant amusement.“What in heaven’s name...” he begins, approaching our little group with measured steps.
“Dad!” Cece hurries over to him, clearly trying to head off any potential conflict. “I was just coming to find you. We had a slight...adjustment to our Santa situation.”
The Reverend studies Wrecker—his tattooed neck peeking out above the Santa collar, his boots showing beneath the too-short pants. “I can see that.” He turns his attention to Wrecker, who’s standing there with his beard slightly askew, looking like the world’s most dangerous mall Santa.
“And you are?”
“They call me Wrecker,” he says, then catches himself. “I mean, I'm...Robert. Robert Wreckman.” I nearly choke trying to suppress my laugh. Wrecker's never used his real name in the five years I've known him.
“Robert has volunteered to be our Santa.”
“The costume is a bit...snug,” he observes dryly.
“Santa's been hitting the gym,” Wrecker says without missing a beat. “Mrs. Claus says I've been letting myself go.”
A startled laugh escapes the Reverend, quickly covered by a cough. “Well, Mr...Wreckman, was it? I think you’ll do just fine as our fill-in Saint Nicholas.”
Before anyone can respond, the kitchen doors burst open and a flurry of church ladies spill into the room, all talking at once and waving clipboards.
“Families are arriving!” one announces. “Everyone to your places, please!”
The room explodes into motion. Volunteers hurry to the craft tables, kids dart between legs, and Wrecker adjusts his Santa beard with a resigned sigh. Cece turns, lighting up as she surveys the chaos, and for a moment, everything else fades away.
She looks happy. Genuinely happy.
And I can’t stop watching her.
Whatever it takes, I’ll make sure she keeps that light in her eyes. I’ll make sure she stays safe.
Even if it means standing guard in a church full of tinsel and sugar cookies.
CECE
I'm still ridingthe Christmas miracle high as we pull out of the church parking lot, my cheeks actually hurting from smiling so much. Today was everything I'd hoped for and more. Over four hundred families will have food on their tables and presents under their trees because of what we did.
“I still can’t believe Wrecker managed to keep it G-rated the entire time,” I say, glancing over at Brayden, who is somehow folded into my passenger seat in a way no human his size should logically manage. “I was convinced he’d slip up the moment that kid asked about the reindeer.”
Brayden chuckles, a low rumble filling the car. “Wrecker may look tough enough to chew through steel, but he’s a marshmallow when it comes to kids. You should’ve seen him last year at his niece’s ballet recital. Front row, bouquet of flowers, tearing up during the bow.”
“I would pay good money to see that,” I say, turning onto Main Street. The Christmas lights strung across the lampposts cast everything in a warm glow, making even our small town look magical. “Seriously though, I don't know how to thank you and the guys. Without you all stepping up, we would've had to cancel the whole distribution.”
“Don't mention it, princess.” Brayden shifts in his seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make him look like a human origami project. “The guys were happy to help.”
I feel warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with my car's temperamental heater. A month ago, I was drowning in divorce papers and humiliation. Now I'm driving home from a successful charity event with a man who rallied his intimidating biker brothers to save Christmas. Life is weird sometimes.
“Still,” I insist, “I want to do something to thank them. Maybe dinner at the guesthouse?”
“You really want to feed those animals? Skelly alone eats enough for three grown men.” Brayden's hand finds my thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles that make it hard to focus on the road. “But if you're serious, they'd love it. Just don't tell them I called them animals.”
“Your secret's safe with me.” I cover his hand with mine, enjoying the contrast of his rough skin against my palm. “Can you text Big and invite him over? We’ll have to stop by the grocery store on the way back.”