Page 57 of Santa's Girl
I laughed —reallylaughed — then reached over and touched his beard. It was so soft I could practically melt into it.
“You’re perfect,” I whispered, leaning across the console to press a kiss to his mouth — soft and slow and sweet.
He kissed me back — that slow burn kind of kiss that makes your ribs ache — and just when I felt his tonguealmoststart to move, I pulled back and smirked.
“Uh-uh. Save it for later, big guy. We’ve got some painting to do.”
He exhaled like I’d just taken away his favorite toy, but climbed out without a word.
Inside, Wine by Design wasfestive as hell— wreaths, gold ribbons, soft jazz playing, little tables lit by tiny string lights.
Andevery woman in the place went quietwhen Bear walked in behind me.
He ducked under a garland like he was stepping into a gingerbread house, and I swear two women dropped their paintbrushes. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Someone actually gasped.
I slid my arm through his and gave the room a smile that said:
Back off. He’s with me.
We found our station — blank canvas, paints set up, aprons ready. They handed us wine. I took a sip, Bear just nodded when they asked if he wanted red or white.
He was watching the instructor like it was a damn TED talk.
“Okay,” I whispered, leaning close. “You ever touched a paintbrush in your life?”
He grunted. “Nope.”
“Then why are you suddenly locked in like this is the final round of a baking competition?”
He didn’t answer. Just dipped his brush into the blue and started filling in the dark sky.
We painted. We sipped. We made small talk with the couple next to us — well,Idid. Bear answered in grunts and the occasional nod.
I kept sneaking glances at his painting, and every time I looked, it was... better.
Like,actuallybetter than mine.
His snowman had shadowing. His moonlit sky haddepth. The pine tree looked like it belonged in a gallery, not a class.
I was biting my lip now. Not because I was concentrating.
Because watching this mountain of a man hold a delicate paintbrush with such quiet focus was doingthingsto me.
“What?” he said, without looking up.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “It’s just... I didn’t know you were secretly Bob Ross.”
“Don’t know who that is,” he muttered.
Of course he didn’t.
Of course he was beating me.
And of course, now it was a competition.
I dipped my brush and got to work. Game on.
By the time we stepped out of Wine by Design, I was flushed from more than just the wine.
