Page 35 of Held-

“I didn't say that either.”

The nurse finishes checking Harold's vitals and writes something on his chart, then gives me a professional nod before leaving the room. I take that as my cue to go, leaning down to press a kiss to Aunt Jillian's soft cheek.

“Love you,” I murmur against her skin, inhaling the familiar scent. “Tell the old man I said hey when he wakes up.”

“I will.” She pats my face with her weathered hand. “And Brayden? Sometimes the best Christmas gifts are the ones we don't think we deserve.”

I give her a look at the not-so-subtle hint, but her words follow me out of the hospital room and into the elevator. Tree lighting. Seven o’clock. Town square. The information loops in my head as I stride across the parking lot to my bike.

I’m not going to that tree lighting. It’s not my scene—too many people, too much cheer, too many memories of standingon the outside while the rest of the town celebrated without me. Besides, after last night, Cece probably needs space. Time to remember why getting involved with someone of my reputation is a terrible idea.

But as I swing my leg over my bike, I already know I’m full of shit. I’ll end up at that damn tree lighting tonight, watching her from a distance the same way I did in high school, pretending I’m not hoping she’ll look my way.

Some things never change.

CECE

I hadn't even plannedon coming to the tree lighting tonight. After that kiss with Brayden yesterday, the one that's been replaying in my mind like a movie I can't stop watching, I'd planned to hide in my room with a bottle of wine and pretend the festival didn't exist. But Dad insisted, saying the church needed to “present a united front” after the board meeting drama.

So here I stand, freezing my ass off in the town square, wearing Brayden's hoodie under my coat because I couldn't bring myself to take it off. It still smells like him.

“Cece!” Mrs. Henderson waves frantically from the hot chocolate booth, her Santa hat tilted at a precarious angle. “Come help us serve! We're short-handed!”

Before I can stammer out an excuse, Mrs. Henderson thrusts a ladle into my hand and practically drags me behind the booth. Great. Now I'm stuck serving lukewarm cocoa to the gossip vultures. I'd been blissfully oblivious until this morning at Coastal Grounds. The moment I pushed through the door, twenty conversations crashed to a halt, leaving nothing but the hiss of the espresso machine and twenty pairs of eyes burning holes through my coat. Message received, San Salona. I'm the main course on your rumor menu this Christmas.

I pour cup after cup, my smile growing more strained with each “Merry Christmas” I force past my lips. The town square is packed, twinkling lights, holiday carols blast from the speakers, and even the fluttering of fake snow is shot into the air is doing nothing to improve my mood. I'm filling yet another cup when I see them.

My hand freezes mid-pour, hot chocolate spilling over the rim and onto my fingers. I barely register the burn.

Ethan stands by the massive Christmas tree, looking as though he stepped straight out of a J.Crew catalog in his camel coat and cashmere scarf. And draped on his arm, every bit the polished accessory, is Brittany—platinum hair cascading over shoulders that clearly aren’t shivering in her too-thin coat. Why choose something warm when you can choose something attention-grabbing?

Brittany. My husband’s former administrative assistant. The woman who used to bring me coffee when I visited his office—while carrying on an affair with him the moment the place emptied out.

“Careful there, dear,” Mrs. Henderson says, grabbing a napkin to blot up my spill. “You’re wasting cocoa.”

I can’t look away as Ethan throws his head back, laughing at something Brittany said. The way his hand settles on the small of her back. The way she leans into him, sliding neatly into the role I once filled.

That used to be me.

“Cece? Are you listening? We need more marshmallows.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, passing the ladle to her. “I'll get them.”

I duck under the table, grateful for the momentary escape, and pretend to search for marshmallows that are clearly visible in the plastic bin right in front of me. I need a minute to breathe, to steady my shaking hands, to swallow the lump of hurt that's suddenly blocking my throat.

It shouldn’t matter. We’re divorced. He moved on before we even signed the papers. I knew he was seeing her. But seeing them together—so public, so…happy—tears open a wound I thought had finally begun to heal.

“Found them,” I announce with false brightness, emerging from under the table with the marshmallow bag. Mrs. Henderson gives me a look that's half concern, half curiosity.

“You alright, dear? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I'm fine,” I lie, the words automatic after months of practice. “Just cold.”

I pour more hot chocolate, focusing intently on not spilling it this time. My fingers are sticky with the earlier spill, and I wipe them discreetly on a napkin. I can feel eyes on me, not just Mrs. Henderson's, but others too. Word has already spread that Ethan and his new girlfriend are here, and everyone wants to see the ex-wife's reaction.

San Salona's favorite spectator sport is watching other people's pain.

I'm so focused on appearing unbothered that I don't notice him approaching until Mrs. Henderson's breath catches audibly beside me.