Page 5 of Santa's Girl
I pulled free, stepped outside, and let the cold hit me full in the face. The snowflakes stung, but they were honest.
Behind me, Huntley stood in the doorway—jaw cut sharp, fists clenched, eyes burning into me.
Looking at me the way I’d wished he would a year ago.
But loving him wasn’t a mistake I was willing to make again.
I turned away, the snow swallowing the sound of my boots on the sidewalk, and didn’t look back.
2
BEAR
Thanksgiving in the clubhouse was loud, messy, and about as far from Norman Rockwell as you could get.
Wings and beer covered every flat surface. The game blasted from the big screen over the bar while a few of the guys argued over a busted fantasy league bet. Pico—idiot that he was—had deep-fried a turkeyoutside in the snow. Somehow, it hadn’t ended in a fireball. Yet.
The mountain had already seen three storms this season, so chains clinked on the trucks parked out front. Bonfires burned daily in the yard, smoke curling into the frosty air. Pico had even mapped out the bobcat snowmobile routes around the woods like it was his personal North Pole.
Everyone was in good spirits. Everyone except me.
I was grumpy as fuck.
Didn’t help that my stepmom, Anne, kept calling, asking me when I was going to “give her grandbabies” and “maybe think about leaving that motorcycle club life behind.” Like I was gonna swap my kutte for a sweater vest and country club Saturdays.
After my mom and brother passed—my old man married the country club wife maybe he always wanted. I choose to live uphere with my maternal grandpa on the land. Chopping wood and fixing cars cleared my head. Most days.
My ex, Danica—now married to some wannabe NASCAR hotshot—couldn’t stop sending me racy pictures like she’d forgotten how the word “boundaries” worked.
Or that Jess—the woman I’d hooked up with a handful of times over the summer when I’d been extra grumpy and extra lonely—was now trying to wedge herself into my lap while I was watching the damn bowl game.
I gave her a firm shove to the side without taking my eyes off the TV. “Move it, sugar. View on the screen’s better than the view of your implanted double D’s.”
Her jaw dropped. “That’s not what you said in July when your?—”
“Yeah,” I cut in, “’cause I was shit-faced and lonely.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
She huffed, muttered something about me being an asshole, and stalked off toward the bar. I didn’t argue. If there was one thing I’d perfected over the years, it was the art of not giving a damn.
The game ended with my team blowing a fourth-quarter lead, and with it went the stupid bet I made with Jinx— letting him sign me up to play Santa at the Christmas fair. I never thought I’d lose. And the shit-eating grin on his face is proof he knows it. I want to wipe the floor with his smirk, instead I sat there for a long second, staring at the score, the noise of the room fading under the static in my head.
Me. A hundred kids whining about toys. An itchy red polyester suit and Pico whitening my beard with a spray can dye. Not fucking happening.
And just like that, the switch flipped.
Full-on Asshole Bear Mode: engaged.
Over in the corner, a couple of the club girls had started dragging out boxes from storage—tinsel, garland, a fake tree with half its lights burned out. Christmas music crackled from the Bluetooth speaker.
My jaw ticked.
In three strides, I crossed the room, yanked the half-decorated tree right out of its stand, and hauled it outside.
“What the hell, Bear?!” one of them called after me.
I didn’t answer. Just walked it straight to the bonfire and fed it to the flames. The dry plastic branches hissed and popped like they were screaming.
