Page 13 of Santa's Girl
He kept his eyes on the road. “Bear.”
I blinked. “Bear?”
“Yeah.”
“No first name? No last?”
He flicked his gaze at me, just once, before returning to the storm. “Just Bear.”
My jaw dropped a little. He wasn’t joking. Dead serious.
I leaned back against the seat, staring at him like I’d fallen into some alternate universe. Out of all the names I’d expected—Hunter, Mason, even a grizzled old-fashioned—Clive—Bearhadn’t made the list.
But looking at him, all beard and brawn, it… fit.
The drive stretched on in silence, only the steady swish of the wipers and the low growl of the engine filling the cab. The snow came down thicker the higher we climbed, heavy flakes sticking to the windshield before being scraped away in jerky swipes.
I hugged my coat tighter, staring out into the white blur. Whatever “clubhouse” meant, it couldn’t be worse than sitting in a snowbank waiting for another semi to finish me off.
I was wrong.
When Bear finally swung the truck down a narrow lane with deep snow banks on either side my heart sunk. No twinkly lights or garland. It looked brown, cold. empty of any cheer.
The cabin crouched under a blanket of snow, all heavy timber and gloom. Not a single twinkle light or wreath in sight. Just dark windows, a sagging porch, and the glow of two trash-barrel firepits out front. Metal trucks ringed the lot like guard dogs, all mud-caked and chained up for snow.
If Christmas was warmth and sparkle, this place was… the opposite. It looked like a tow truck , snow plow car lot. But I wasn’t a snob. I dated a man with money and there was nothing underneath his hood.
My hand tightened around the strap of my bag. “This is it?”
Bear killed the engine and reached for the door. “Home sweet home.”
The way he said it made it sound anything but sweet.
I didn’t move. “Okay, thanks for the rescue, but if you could just take me the rest of the way to my aunt’s?—”
He stopped, turned, and pinned me with those dark eyes. “Not happening. Roads’ll be shut down by morning. You’re stuck here ’til they clear.”
My stomach dipped. “How long is that?”
He shrugged, casual, like it was nothing. “Weekend. Maybe more.”
I stared out at the snow-choked lot, the barrels of fire hissing as the flakes hit them. No wreaths. No welcome. Not a scrap of Christmas cheer.
My beautiful plan to drown Aunt Margie in fa-la-la… dead before it even started.
I sat there for a long beat, the cold from outside creeping into the cab while Bear waited. Finally, with a sigh, I shoved open my door—only for it to stop short.
He was already there.
I blinked at him. Six-foot-something, broad as the truck itself, and holding the door like some kind of old-school gentleman. It didn’t fit. Not with the chain belt, the scowl, the whole mountain-man biker vibe.
Still… I murmured, “Thanks,” before sliding out.
The ground was slick, the path to the porch iced over. My boots skidded, and for one heart-thumping second I thought I was going to eat snow.
But his hand was suddenly there, firm around my elbow, steadying me like it was nothing.
Up close, the heat of him cut through the winter bite. I caught the faintest scent—spicy pine soap and something else, something darker and all man.
