Page 61 of Santa's Girl
“I can’t think of a single reasonwhyyou should stay,” he said, voice low, rough.
My eyes flicked up.
Then he added, “Becca, I know we just met. And I’m not really the kind of guy thatdates.I’m the kind of guy who just... takes.”
My breath caught.
“But you?” His thumb pressed into the center of my palm. “You’re different.Thisis different. I feel it. Don’t you?”
I shifted under the table, my knees brushing his. I felt it. It was practically pulsing.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Maybe it’s just the holidays?”
“Absolutely not,” he said — fast, sharp.
“Oh,” I said, blinking.
He ran a hand over his face. “Sorry. I just— I’m really not a Christmas guy.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s kind of the irony here.”
And then it shifted again — back to light, to warm. We talked. We laughed. Sipped coffee. Told stories about stupid teenage decisions, bad haircuts, weird jobs. It felt... natural. Like we'd known each other for years, not days.
Then the bill came.
I reached for it at the same time he did, but Bear was faster. Slipped his credit card in before I could even open my mouth.
“Bear,” I said, frowning. “I know you don’t have much. That’s not an insult — I don’t either. But you don’t need to do all this to impress me.”
He didn’t look up.
“I mean it,” I went on. “You impress me already. The way you treat people. How you open the door for me. The way you look at me like I matter. That’s more than most men have ever given me.”
That made him pause. Really pause. His eyes met mine, and there was something in them I couldn’t quite name — like he was weighing whether or not to tell me something real.
Then he stood, signed the bill.
“Wait a minute,” I said, squinting. “You don’treallysign the check as ‘Bear,’ do you?”
He gave a slight smirk but said nothing.
I lunged forward, playful. “Let me see that credit card. I want to know your real name. Yourfullname.”
He pulled it back smoothly, tucking it into his wallet. “Nope.”
“Why not? What are you, a secret felon or something?”
He leveled a look at me. “No. I am who I am. You know that.”
But still — he wouldn’t let me see it. And it stuck in my mind. Just a little.
Margie wasout at her book club-slash-game night, which meant it was just the two of us in her place — fire on, lights dimmed, the hum of something quiet playing on Netflix just to fill the silence.
I poured him another glass of wine and curled up next to him on the couch, trying to play it cool, but every nerve in my body was on high alert.
He sat with one arm draped along the back of the couch, glass in hand, legs stretched out like he had all the time in the world. Watching me.
Not talking.
