Page 27 of Santa's Girl
It’s in my blood. My last tether to the people who mattered.
I let my eyes wander over the mantel—old photographs in brass frames, my grandfather in his hunting gear, my mom in a red wool coat holding me on her hip.
We used to spend Christmases here.
Whole family packed into this cabin, lights strung on every beam, the smell of cinnamon and woodsmoke thick in the air. Snowmen out front. Sleds leaning against the porch. The sound of carols mixed with the crackle of the fire.
Best memories I ever had.
Before the wreck.
Before the funerals.
Before the mountain got quiet.
Now it’s just me and the ghosts.
And I keep everything the way it was, because if I change it, maybe they disappear for good.
I took another slow drink, stared into the flames until they blurred. The wood popped, sending up a spray of sparks.
For a heartbeat, I thought I heard laughter again—light, musical, not from memory but from upstairs. Becca.
I closed my eyes.
Yeah. Sleep I stayed there long after the whiskey was gone, just watching the fire chew through the last of the wood. The cabin was quiet except for the crackle and the hum of the wind pressing against the windows.
She’d called meBear, and that was fine by me.
Better she never knew the name on the paperwork. One Google search and she’d see a line of old accounts and family trusts longer than the valley itself. I’d learned early that money made people look at you different—made them want things that had nothing to do with you.
Even the club didn’t know. They thought I just kept this place running for a living. The real Boone, the one with the title and the bank stock, was supposed to be off somewhere in Europe or down in Atlanta playing executive.
That’s the way I liked it.
The fire hissed; a knot of pine cracked open, throwing sparks. For a moment, it felt like the ghosts in the pictures on the mantel were all watching me, waiting for me to say something I didn’t have the words for.
A soft sound behind me—the faint creak of the top step. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
She came into view a second later, hair tumbling, hoodie hanging loose over her shoulders. Bare legs. She stopped when she saw me, eyes catching the firelight.
Her gaze went wide.
Caught staring.
I arched a brow. “Better head back upstairs, sugar.”
She smiled a little. “You forgot theplumpart.”
That made me look at her properly. The fire threw shadows across her face, all soft edges and stubborn eyes.
I sighed. “You wearing shorts and a hoodie? You cold or confused?”
“Maybe both,” she said. “You offering to keep me warm?”
I shook my head. “You flirting with me now, Becca? Thought I wasn’t your type.”
She walked over, slow but sure, and before I could stop her she took the glass from my hand. Tilted it back, emptied the lastswallow without flinching. When she set it down, she met my eyes.
