Page 29 of Santa's Girl
She laughed. “Good luck with that.”
I figured that would be the end of it. I threw on a coat and headed out to the yard, breath fogging, boots crunching through the crust. The line of trucks sat like sleeping beasts under their white blankets. I grabbed a shovel, started knocking the snowoff the first hood, and tried not to think about how the morning light had caught her smile.
Half an hour later I heard the door creak again.
She came trudging out wearing the same ridiculous snowsuit I’d stuffed her into the night before—zipped to her chin, hood up, mittens twice too big. The sight made me grin before I could stop it.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked.
“Helping,” she said matter-of-fact, and reached into one of the cabs. She came out with a broom and an ice scraper, brushed off the windshield, slid into the driver’s seat, and turned the key like she’d done it a thousand times. The engine coughed, then caught. She flipped the defrost, adjusted the wipers, and climbed back out, already moving on to the next truck.
I stood there, shovel in hand, feeling like an idiot.
A Charlotte city girl with a manicure shouldn’t know her way around a frozen ignition.
But there she was—working beside me, breath fogging the same as mine, cheeks red from the cold.
No complaints. No drama. Just quiet focus.
We worked in silence for a while, the only sound the scrape of brushes and the occasional slam of a door. Snowflakes drifted down again, thin and lazy, settling in her hair.
And damned if I didn’t feel something shift.
I’d told myself a woman like her would never fit this life—too polished, too soft for the mountain.
But as I watched her knock the ice off the wipers with the handle of the broom and grin like she’d won a fight, I realized I might’ve misjudged her.
Still, I reminded myself, this land is my blood. I’m not leaving it for anyone.
And Becca?
She’s not the kind who stays.
I went back to work, shovel biting into the snow, hoping the noise would drown out the thought that maybe—just maybe—I didn’t want her to leave.
By the time the last truck was cleared, my hands were numb and the sun had burned a hole through the morning haze. She brushed her gloves together, grinning like a kid who’d just finished building the best snow fort on the mountain.
“Guess I passed the test,” she said.
“You did all right,” I told her, though inside I was still a little stunned at how capable she’d been.
I stacked the last broom and nodded toward the cabin. “Get warm. I’m taking you to lunch.”
Her brows lifted. “Lunch? What, another private, invitation-only kind of place?”
“Something like that.”
“Let me guess—more plaid and no Christmas music?”
“Now you’re getting it.”
She laughed, that clear, easy sound that seemed to make the cold back off a little. Then she disappeared inside to bundle up.
A few minutes later we were back outside, helmets in hand. The Arctic Cat waited by the porch, the snow beneath it packed and glittering.
I swung a leg over the seat and looked back. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she said, snapping her helmet strap and climbing on behind me.
