Page 40 of Santa's Girl
The world narrowed to the warmth of her mouth and the slow thud of my heartbeat. The taste of her was winter itself—peppermint, woodsmoke, and something fragile that made me want to hold on tighter. Like the taste of all the things that could break you if you weren’t careful.
When she finally pulled back, her voice was barely a whisper. “You see what I mean? Diamonds.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t looking at the stars anymore.
For the first time in years, Christmas didn’t feel like something to survive.
It felt like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left worth wanting.
Becca stumbled a little getting off the sled, laughing like it didn’t matter if she fell or floated. Her helmet clunked to the ground. I caught her elbow, steadied her, and felt the heat of her skin through layers of fabric and gloves.
“Okay, okay,” she said, wagging a finger at me like I’d done something outrageous. “You’re sobossy, Bear.”
She slapped my arm — not hard, just enough to make a point. Then she started humming under her breath. Something familiar.Jingle Bells, maybe. OrSilent Night.It was too off-key to tell.
Her cheeks were red from the cold and the alchohol eyes glassy and dancing under the stars.
“We should go back,” she said. “Clubhouse has hot chocolate. People. Dancing.”
“The clubhouse has noise and a bunch of drunk idiots trying to pretend they’re not freezing,” I said, guiding her toward thecabin instead. “You need a shower. Water. Maybe an aspirin. Time to go home…”
She sighed dramatically, let her head fall against my shoulder like she was giving in. “Look at you. All caretaker-y.”
“Someone has to be,” I muttered.
She didn’t hear me. Or maybe she just didn’t care. She was humming again — this time definitelyLet It Snow— swaying slightly with each step, like her body was still riding the engine’s rhythm.
Inside the cabin, the heat hit us like a wall. She peeled off her gloves and unzipped her jacket with a slow, clumsy grace, like every movement was a tiny victory. Her hair stuck to the static of her fleece. I forced myself to look away, to busy myself with the kettle and a clean towel.
“You good?” I asked without turning around.
She didn’t answer right away. When I glanced back, she was watching me — soft smile, flushed face, like she was seeing something in me I wasn’t ready to have seen.
“You always take care of me,” she said quietly.
I swallowed, throat dry. “Someone has to.”
She stepped forward and poked my chest. “There it is again.Bossy.”
“You’re drunk, Becca.”
She grinned. “Buzzed.”
“Border line drunk,” I corrected.
“Only a little,” she said, and leaned in like she was telling me a secret. “But I feel good.”
And God help me, she looked it. Glowing. Happy. Beautiful in a way that hurt.
She brushed past me toward the bathroom, singing again. Off-key. Carefree. My heart knocked hard against my ribs as the door clicked shut behind her.
The ache in my chest settled in, dull and heavy. I poured a glass of water and left it on the nightstand next to the aspirin, trying not to think about what it would feel like to crawl in beside her. To hold her, just for a night.
She was humming again, even through the door.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, elbows on my knees, and tried to remember all the reasons I wasn’t allowed to want this. Then I crossed the hall to my own room to start building a fire.
The door creaked open behind me.
