chapter 181

chapter 181
Grace's POV:
Time slips through our fingers like sand.
The morning light filtered through frost-kissed windows as I woke to find Maverick already dressed, leaning against the doorframe with that soft smile.
His gray-blue eyes held a warmth that made my chest ache with how much I loved him.
"Merry almost-Christmas," he murmured, crossing the room to press a kiss to my forehead. "Your mother's already making breakfast. We should get moving if we want to beat the holiday crowds."
I stretched, the diamond pendant he'd given me catching the light against my collarbone. "You're unusually cheerful for someone who claims to hate shopping."
"First Christmas as a family." His hand found mine, fingers interlacing with practiced ease. "I'm allowed to be excited."
The phrase caught me off guard—as a family.
Something in his voice suggested he'd been waiting years to say those words, to belong somewhere beyond the cold walls of Cross Manor. I pulled him down for a proper kiss, tasting coffee and contentment.
"Then we'd better not keep them waiting."
---
The supermarket parking lot was a chaotic sea of last-minute shoppers, but Maverick navigated it with the same precision he'd once used on the ice rink.
Mom and Noah were already by the entrance, bundled against the December cold, their breath forming small clouds in the crisp air.
"There you two are," Mom called out, her smile bright despite the chill. "I was beginning to think you'd changed your minds."
"Never," Maverick said smoothly, taking the shopping list from her hands with a courteous nod. "I've been looking forward to this all week."
Noah shot me a knowing look that said he's really laying it on thick, but even my perpetually skeptical brother couldn't hide his amusement.
Maverick had that effect on people lately—the sharp edges that once defined him had softened into something warmer, more accessible, though I suspected only our small circle ever got to see it.
Inside, the store was a riot of red and green.
Tinsel hung from every available surface, and a slightly off-key rendition of "Jingle Bells" played over the speakers. Children darted between aisles while parents attempted damage control, their carts overflowing with wrapping paper and last-minute gifts.
Maverick grabbed a cart and immediately began steering toward the produce section, but I caught his wrist.
"We need decorations first," I reminded him, nodding toward the seasonal aisle where garlands and ornaments beckoned in glittering rows.
His expression turned almost boyish. "Right. Decorations."
What followed was perhaps the most endearing shopping trip of my life. Maverick—who once commanded boardrooms and inspired fear in competitors—stood before a display of Christmas lights with the focused intensity of a general planning a military campaign.
"Gold or white?" he asked seriously, holding up two boxes.
"Both," Mom interjected, appearing at his elbow with a wreath already in her arms. "And we'll need at least three more strands if we want to do the staircase properly."
"Three more," he repeated, loading them into the cart with the dedication of someone who'd never decorated for Christmas before. Which, I realized with a pang, he probably hadn't—not like this, not with people who wanted him there.
Noah emerged from the next aisle carrying a frankly ridiculous inflatable Santa. "Thoughts?"
"Absolutely not," I said at the same time Maverick said, "We're getting it."
I turned to stare at him. "You cannot be serious."
"Your brother clearly wants it." He was already taking it from Noah's hands, adding it to our growing pile. "Besides, it'll look perfect by the front door."
"It's eight feet tall!"
"Exactly." His grin was unrepentant, and something about the pure joy in his expression made my protest die on my lips.
"Fine," I conceded, shaking my head. "But you're the one explaining it to the neighbors."
We moved through the store like that, the cart filling with an absurd combination of elegant decorations and tacky novelties that somehow felt perfectly right.
Maverick's attention to detail manifested in unexpected ways—he noticed when Mom hesitated over expensive candles and added them to the cart when she wasn't looking, insisted on getting the premium hot chocolate mix because I like the dark chocolate kind, and somehow remembered that Noah preferred gingerbread cookies to sugar cookies.
When we reached the food section, he took over the cart completely, navigating the aisles with the confidence of someone who'd memorized my preferences through two years of separation and was determined to make up for lost time.
We finished shopping in a blur of laughter and playful arguments over which type of stuffing to get.
The drive home was cramped with shopping bags and that ridiculous inflatable Santa taking up most of Noah's backseat space, but no one complained.
The radio played carols, and Mom hummed along while Maverick's hand found mine in the space between our seats, his thumb tracing absent patterns against my skin.
Back home, we spent the afternoon transforming the house into something out of a holiday catalog.
By the time dinner rolled around, the house looked magical.
Lights twinkled from every surface, the tree stood proud in the corner, and yes, that ridiculous inflatable Santa dominated the front porch, much to the amusement of passing neighbors.
Dinner was chaotic and perfect.
We crowded around the table, passing dishes and talking over each other, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this settled, this home. Maverick kept my glass filled and made sure Mom had seconds before she could even ask, and when Noah teased him about being "domesticated," he just smiled and said, "Damn right I am."
After we'd eaten ourselves into a comfortable stupor, the men insisted on handling cleanup while Mom and I retreated to the living room. I curled up on the couch, the lights from the tree casting warm shadows across the walls, and tried to commit every detail of the evening to memory.
"Grace, honey," Mom said suddenly. "Can I ask you something?"
I turned to face her, noting the slight hesitation in her expression. "Of course."
She glanced toward the kitchen, where Maverick and Noah's voices drifted out in easy conversation, then leaned in conspiratorially. "When are you two planning to get married?"