Page 28 of Held-

“You know,” I say, hefting a case of macaroni and cheese, “I think we might actually pull this off. Between the toys and now this food, we might save Christmas after all.”

“Never doubted it. You're too stubborn to let the Kincaids win.”

I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “Stubborn? Me? I prefer determined.”

“Same thing, different packaging.” He reaches for the box in my arms, his fingers brushing mine. “Let me take that.”

“I can handle it,” I protest, but he's already lifting it from my grasp.

“I know you can. But you don't have to.”

Something about those simple words hits me harder than they should. You don't have to. When was the last time someone offered to carry my burdens instead of adding to them?

Dad appears in the doorway of the fellowship hall, his expression a complicated mix of surprise and reluctant approval as he surveys the mountains of food we’ve managed to bring in. His gaze lingers on Brayden, who’s arranging boxes of dry goods. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“Very,” I reply, trying not to sound defensive. “We got everything on the list and then some.”

Dad steps further into the room, scanning the tables piled high with groceries with what might be genuine appreciation. “This is...impressive.”

“Thank your daughter,” Brayden says without looking up from the boxes he’s organizing. “She’s the one who knew exactly what the families would need.”

Dad’s eyebrows lift slightly at that, his attention shifting to me with a question I can’t quite decipher. I straighten under his scrutiny, suddenly sixteen again and desperate to prove I’m responsible enough for the car keys.

“The van ran well?” Dad asks, changing the subject.

“Like a dream,” I say. “Brayden even fixed the sliding door. No more screeching.”

His brows rise. “You fixed it? We’ve had three different mechanics look at that door.”

Brayden shrugs—half dismissive, half proud. “Sometimes you just need a fresh perspective on an old problem.”

“Indeed.” Dad straightens, “Well, I should let you finish up. The board meeting starts in an hour.”

My stomach drops. I’d almost forgotten about the emergency meeting, the one where Mrs. Whitaker will undoubtedly present her detailed report on this morning’sconcerning developments.

“Dad,” I start, but he holds up a hand.

“Don’t worry about it, Cecelia. Some battles are worth fighting.” He meets Brayden’s gaze across the room. “Thank you. For all of this.”

Brayden nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment between men. Then Dad's gone, leaving us alone with the echo of his footsteps.

“Think he'll survive the board meeting?” Brayden asks, breaking the silence.

“My father? He's tougher than he looks.” I stack another box, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“He'll be fine,” Brayden says, reaching for the last box in the van. “Your dad seems like the kind of man who knows how to handle church politics.”

We get lost in sorting through the boxes. It isn’t until we’re filling the final food box that the back door to the fellowship hall swings open. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees as Richard Kincaid strides in, carrying himself with the certainty of a man who believes the entire building exists because of his family’s “donations.”

He probably thinks it does.

His eyes sweep the room, taking in the stacks of food boxes before locking onto Brayden. His face twists into pure disgust, his expression curdling as though he’s just uncovered something foul on the bottom of his Italian leather shoes.

Brayden sets down the box he's holding with deliberate care, his movements controlled in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He moves to my side, putting himself between Richard and me. Every muscle in my body tenses as I watch him glide across the room. His lips are pressed into a thin line of disapproval, but strangely, he doesn't say a word. Not one snide comment, not one veiled threat. He simply walks past us before continuing toward the main hall where the board meeting will be held.

The silence is somehow worse than any confrontation.

Brayden's hand finds my elbow, his touch firm but gentle. “We're done here,” he declares as he guides me toward the exit.