Page 205 of The Holiday Clause

Wren’s fingers found his, squeezing gently through their gloves. She’d been his anchor through every brutal moment—the viewing, the eulogy he’d somehow managed to deliver, the final prayers as they lowered their father into frozen ground. Even now, she radiated the kind of quiet strength that made him believe he might survive this.

The funeral director approached with practiced sympathy. “The limo’s ready when you are, Mr. Hawthorne. No rush.”

Greyson nodded, taking one last look at the grave site. Magnus was gone. Despite everything—all the years of silence, all the ways they’d failed each other, all the words that would never be spoken—Greyson knew they’d been good sons. Imperfect, maybe. Stubborn as hell, definitely. But they’d loved their impossible father anyway.

The black limousine waited with its engine running, exhaust clouds rising like incense in the frigid air. Logan climbed in first, then Soren. Wren squeezed in beside him, and Greyson took theseat across from his brothers, needing to see their faces, needing to know they were all still here.

The driver pulled away from the cemetery in respectful silence, tires crunching over the salt-scattered road. Through tinted windows, Greyson watched the town scroll past, shop windows still dressed for Christmas, life continuing its relentless march forward while theirs had ground to a halt.

Love was a complicated son of a bitch, perhaps more so in death. Sometimes, there just wasn’t enough time to figure it out. But he was learning.

His gaze naturally settled on Wren as she sat angelically in the dim interior. Light filtered through her hair. The gentle curve of her mouth and the steady rise and fall of her breathing settled him in ways he couldn’t explain.

His future wife.

He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that what he felt for Wren transcended every petty thing that had come before. The thought still caught him off guard, sent something warm spreading through his chest despite the cold seeping through the windows. As long as he had her by his side, he could handle anything.

They’d figure it out together—the business, the inheritance, all the complicated mess Magnus had left behind. But first, they’d get through today. They’d stand in their father’s house surrounded by casseroles and sympathy, accept more condolences, and somehow find a way to live in a new world without giants and tyrants.

The limousine turned onto the familiar tree-lined drive, and Greyson’s chest tightened. Cars already packed the circular driveway—neighbors, business associates, distant relatives who’d materialized for the occasion. Smoke curled from the chimneys, and warm light spilled from every window,transforming the austere mansion into something almost welcoming.

Their patriarch and his legacy was gone, but the house still stood. The sense of family still survived. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The car glided to a stop beside the front steps, and Greyson took a deep breath, preparing to face whatever came next. His brothers exited, and Wren waited.

“If you’re not ready for this, we can wait.”

He met her stare and nodded. “I’m ready.”

She slid out of the car, and he followed.

The house buzzed with the peculiar energy of a wake—hushed conversations punctuated by the occasional burst of nervous laughter, the clink of silverware against china, the soft shuffle of feet across Persian rugs. Greyson stood near the fireplace, watching it all unfold like a movie he wasn’t quite part of.

The dining room table groaned under the weight of casserole dishes and sympathy offerings. Tuna noodle, green bean, something that might have been lasagna but could just as easily have been cardboard smothered in cheese. The scent of comfort food mixed with the lingering pine from their Christmas tree, creating an oddly festive atmosphere for such a somber occasion.

Wren moved through the crowd effortlessly, accepting condolences with genuine grace, directing traffic toward the buffet, somehow remembering everyone’s names and asking after their families. She’d changed from her funeral dress into something softer, a charcoal sweater that brought out the gold in her hair. Every gesture was natural, every smile authentic despite the grief shrouding the last few days.

How had he gotten so fucking lucky?

She appeared at his elbow with a plate piled high with food he didn’t want. “Eat,” she commanded softly, pressing the dish into his hands.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. You need to eat something.” Her fingers brushed his wrist, warm and insistent. “Please, Grey. For me.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He found an empty chair against the wall, settling in to pick at Mrs. Henderson’s famous potato salad while keeping one eye on the room. Logan held court near the bar, regaling some old high school friends with a story that actually drew genuine laughter. Greyson scanned the crowd for Soren, expecting to find him working the room with corporate precision, shaking hands and accepting business cards, but his middle brother was nowhere to be found.

A movement near the hallway caught his attention. Jocelyn emerged from the powder room with the kind of expression that immediately set off alarm bells—eyes darting left and right, smoothing down her skirt, looking for all the world like she’d just committed some minor crime.

Greyson frowned, taking another bite of potato salad as he watched her slink toward the kitchen with exaggerated casualness.

A moment later, the powder room door opened again. Soren stepped out, and Greyson nearly choked on a lump of egg and potato.

His brother’s usually immaculate hair stuck up at odd angles, his tie hung loose around his neck, and his shirt was wrinkled in ways that suggested it had been hastily tugged.

Pausing in the doorway, Soren straightened his cuffs and glanced up, his gaze freezing when it collided with Greyson’s no doubt stunned expression. Color draining from his rigid face as realization dawned. He shot a quick glance toward the kitchenwhere Jocelyn had disappeared, then back to Greyson with the desperate look of a man caught red-handed.

Very slowly, very deliberately, his brother pressed a finger to his lips, his expression pleading.