Page 18 of Santa's Girl
“Inside,” he said finally. “I’ll find somethin’ for you to eat.”
“Does it involve more powder?”
He gave me a side glance. “Keep talkin’, you’ll find yourself lickin’ the spoon.”
I huffed out a laugh despite myself. “You’re charming, you know that?”
He grunted, climbing up into the truck bed to secure the chain hooks. “That’s what all the women say right before they stop talkin’ to me.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I murmured, turning back toward the porch, the woodsmoke and cold tang of diesel trailing after me.
Fifteen minutes later, the back door banged shut and Bear came in, trailing snow and cold air. He didn’t say a word. Just kicked off his boots, peeled off his gloves, and went straight to the sink. The sound of running water filled the cabin as he washed his hands and forearms, slow and methodical.
When he turned, his gaze swept over me from head to toe—not in a creepy way, but like he was checking inventory. Still, having that much man focused on me made my pulse stutter. He was all broad shoulders and quiet judgment, and I suddenly felt very small in my skinny jeans and city coat.
Without a word, he walked past me, opened a closet by the door, and pulled out what looked like an avalanche of plaid.
“Uh… what are you doing?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he shook out a heavy bomber-style coat, held it open, and started fitting it around my shoulders.
“Excuse me?” I stepped back. “What is happening right now?”
“What you’ve got on isn’t working.” His voice was low, unhurried. “We’re going to get dinner.”
“Dinner?” I repeated. “Like… outside? Because I was thinking maybe delivery, but I guess that’s not really an option when there’s no cell service or roads.”
He ignored me, pulling out a knit hat so old it might have seen the Berlin Wall come down. Then mittens—thick, waterproof, definitely not cute—and a scarf that smelled faintly like cedar.
“Bear,” I said, holding up my hands. “I can dress myself.”
A faint twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “City girl like you won’t last five minutes where we’re going.”
“And where’s that exactly?”
“You’ll find out. Suit up.”
He bent and tugged out a full-on snowsuit, the kind that could probably withstand a blizzard on Mars. It hung huge on me, the knees ballooning, the sleeves swallowing my hands.
I stared down at myself. “Great. I look like a rejected Stay-Puft Marshmallow Elf.”
He handed me a pair of boots. “You done talkin’?”
“I’d love to be, but getting words out of you is like—” I paused, searching for the right line. “—like trying to pull teeth from a bear. With a spoon.”
That twitch again, just barely. “You done now?”
“Not even close,” I muttered, zipping up the suit.
When he was satisfied that I was swaddled within an inch of my life, he caught my wrist and tugged me gently toward the back door. His hand was warm even through the layers.
Outside, the world was dark and glittering, the snow reflecting the pale glow of the moon. He led me to a long, low building beside the cabin and hauled the door up with one smooth pull.
Inside sat a machine straight out of an action movie—a black Arctic Cat snowmobile gleaming under a single hanging bulb.
I blinked. “We’re… taking that?”
He grabbed two helmets from a hook. “Get on. Hold tight.”
