Page 101 of Santa's Girl
We looked like Santa’s sleigh if he was an MC Prez and his reindeer were a leathered-out outlaw gang.
I was dressed for the occasion too.
Red flannel. Black boots. Santa hat slouched to the side.
Heart on my damn sleeve.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea when we pulled up near the square. Cameras flashed. Phones were out. Some folks laughed, others gasped. Kids cheered. A few of the local women fanned themselves.
But I only looked for one face.
Becca.
In a dark green coat with a fur-lined hood. Her hair fell in loose waves, her cheeks pink from the cold. She was helping with the crowd, clipboard in hand, directing volunteers like she was born to run the world.
Damn, she was beautiful.
And I’d broken her.
Jinx hopped off first, still jingling.
The sound of motorcycles cut through the holiday cheer.
Every head turned.
The rest of the Appalachian Outlaws rolled in, slow and smooth. Tires crunching on snow. Kuttes patched and glinting under the streetlamps. Some wore Santa hats. It was ridiculous. And perfect.
We parked in a line.
Pico handed me the box. A small gift, wrapped in deep green paper, tied with red velvet ribbon. I walked straight into the crowd, people parting like a tide.
She looked up.
Our eyes locked.
She didn’t smile.
Didn’t move.
I stopped in front of her, heart hammering.
"For you," I said quietly, holding out the box.
In my hands, a small wrapped gift.
I stopped in front of her and offered it, heart pounding like I’d just climbed a mountain.
She hesitated.
Then took it.
She peeled back the paper. Opened the lid.
Inside was a vintage compass. Brass, worn, beautiful.
And a note tucked inside.
Home isn’t a place. It’s a person. I’m yours if you’ll have me.
