Page 204 of The Holiday Clause

She ignored his brothers. “If it fixes things, let’s just do it. I don’t want the three of you to fight.”

“We’re not fighting. I’m standing my ground.”

“Against our interests,” Logan barked. “What about us?”

“Yeah, what about the company and what we want?”

An argument erupted as they disputed the same old shit they’d been fighting over for years. Finally, Greyson snapped, “Did you ever consider I might not want it?”

The room silenced.

Soren scoffed. “No fucking shit.”

They squared off for a long moment, and then Logan finally admitted, “I want it. There. I admitted it. I want the company. And so does Soren. Does that mean anything to you?”

Tension crept up his spine. “Yes, but that’s not possible. The clause in the will?—“

“Fuck the will! If you meet the clause, you inherit the company. You can do whatever the hell you want with it after that. You’d run the show.”

When he hesitated, Soren scoffed again, “My God, Greyson, is it really so hard for you to put us first? We’re talking about six months of involvement—tops.”

“You’re asking us to fast-track our lives. This isn’t just about me. It’s about Wren.”

“Wren, do you even want a big wedding?”

“I…” She looked up at Greyson and back to the boys. “I want everyone to be happy.”

Greyson’s jaw locked. “Enough. I’m not going to let you make our marriage into some business deal. I’ve said my piece, and that’s the?—”

“Excuse me?—”

They all turned to find Monica wringing her hands in the doorway, tears in her eyes. The world withered small enough to slide through a keyhole as the expression on her face sank in. All sound disappeared.

Logan rushed out of the study. Soren followed. Wren squeezed his arm, and the world shifted back on its axis, fitting like a shoe on the wrong foot.

“Greyson, I’m so sorry.” She hugged him and his arms numbly lifted to hold her.

A chill rushed down his spine.

They were too late.

It was done.

CHAPTER 32

“We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, For the sake of auld lang syne”

The last ofthe mourners shuffled across the frost-bitten cemetery grass, their black coats stark against the December snow. Greyson watched them stream toward the parking lot in clusters—some dabbing at red-rimmed eyes, others speaking in hushed tones that carried on the bitter wind.

Mayor Locke helped his wife navigate the icy path between headstones. Ralph Peabody actually wore a proper suit. Even Jocelyn Collins kept her commentary tasteful and reserved, not bickering with Soren once.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Half of Hideaway Harbor had shown up to celebrate Magnus Hawthorne, standing in the bitter cold, paying their respects to the urn holding a man who’d never bothered to learn most of their names.

But that’s what small towns did. They came together in love and support during the good times and the bad. And for the first time in a long time, Greyson felt the extraordinary affection ofhis neighbors, each one offering condolences and comments that reminded him their mother was still missed.

They didn’t show up for Magnus. They showed up for Sable and her boys. That’s how powerful his mother’s legacy was. It outlived his father’s fortune and stretched beyond his dark shadow. Her goodness was the real source of richness in their lives, and Greyson saw that today more than ever before.

Greyson pulled his coat tighter, watching his brothers outlast the crowd. Logan wiped his nose with the back of his gloved hand. Soren stood, statue-still, jaw clenched against whatever threatened to crack his composure. They’d held it together through the service, through the endless parade of handshakes and hollow condolences, but exhaustion weighed on all of them like wet wool. After Christmas, the three of them would take a ship out and fulfill the last of his father’s wishes, scattering what remained of his ashes at sea.