Dawson
Watching her place the star on top of the Christmas tree—seeing the way her whole face lit up when the room did—it got to me. Again.
There’s a pattern forming, and every piece of it leads straight back to Grace Beckett. The pretty little brunette who caught my eye in that crowded bar last night and hasn’t let go since. I noticed her then, sure. The warmth, the sweetness, the way she talked with her hands.
But here, in her family’s home—surrounded by Christmas lights and the people who love her—it’s like all of that has sharpened. Magnified. The glow of the fire, the twinkle of the ornaments, even the faint scent of pine and cinnamon in the air—it all seems to bend toward her, as if the whole room is conspiring to make me notice every little detail there is about her.
And that mo
