Page 17 of Santa's Girl
Fast-paced. Smart.
Not that I could see more than half the page in the dim glow.
I smiled to myself, tucking it aside for later, along with a Mary Higgins Clark paperback I’d found wedged between two car manuals. If I was going to die here, at least I’d go with good literature.
Outside, through the frost-fogged window, I saw movement.
Bear—jacket zipped to his chin, gloves on—bent over the front wheel of one of his trucks, chain links clinking as he looped them into place. Two metal barrels burned nearby, orange light flickering across the snow like twin beacons. The firelight made the flakes shimmer around him, and for a second, he looked carved out of the mountain itself.
I hugged myself tighter.
This wasn’t exactly how I pictured Christmas vacation.
No cinnamon rolls with Aunt Margie. No sugar cookies, no lights, no music.
Just a storm, a man named Bear, and my stomach growling loud enough to echo.
After ten minutes of internal debate—and the sharp twist of hunger pains—I pulled my coat and boots back on and opened the door. The blast of icy air slapped me across the face, stealing my breath.
“Bear?” I called, stepping carefully onto the porch.
He didn’t look up. The sound of the chains clinking swallowed my voice.
I tried again, louder. “Bear! You’ll freeze out here!”
He didn’t turn, but I caught the ghost of a smirk. “You sayin’ that ’cause you care or ’cause you need somethin’, sunshine?”
“I’m saying it because it’s freezing and I’m starving,” I snapped, stomping closer. “Like, low blood sugar, fainting kind of starving.”
He tightened the last link on the tire and straightened, towering over me. The firelight danced off his beard, catching flecks of snow still clinging to it.
“Go suck on one of those candy canes you made me rescue from your car,” he said gruffly.
My mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
He froze mid-step. His jaw clenched, a breath misted from his mouth. “Sorry. That came out—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “—wrong. Shit. I’m almost done. Go back inside, and we’ll figure it out.”
I blinked at him, startled more by the apology than the words.
For a man who looked like he communicated exclusively in growls, “sorry” felt monumental.
He turned back to the truck, knuckles white as he adjusted something near the axle. “Jammed my damn thumb putting the plow on earlier,” he muttered under his breath.
“Okay,” I said softly, pulling my coat tighter. “I’ll, uh… wait.”
My eyes drifted past him, to the rest of the yard. There were at least ten trucks lined up in two uneven rows—someold, some newer, all mud-caked and dusted with snow. The barrels burning between them gave the place an eerie, industrial glow. Chains glimmered in the firelight. Tools gleamed on workbenches. It looked less like a cabin yard and more like a staging area.
I hesitated. “Do you, um… run a snowplow business or something?”
He didn’t look up. “Or something.”
The wind gusted, throwing snow across my boots. I frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re gettin’ tonight,” he said evenly, yanking the chain one last time before standing to his full, very tall height.
For a second, we just looked at each other.
The snow fell heavier now, swirling between us like a curtain. He looked tired, cold, and impossibly solid—like nothing short of a mountain collapse could move him.
