Page 55 of Santa's Girl
No hesitation.
Five crisp hundreds. Set them down on the counter.
“Merry Christmas,” I said.
Samantha blinked. Zane’s mouth actually fell open. Like, full gape. They both stared at me like I’d just dropped gold bars instead of cash.
“Y’all didn’t think a guy in grease-stained flannel and busted boots knew how to tip, huh?”
They didn’t answer — still stunned.
I gave them both a wink as I headed for the door. “Never judge a book by its cover.”
Zane found his voice as I reached for the handle. “Let us know how the date goes! Come back anytime!”
I grunted. Just once. Deep and low.
Then shut the door behind me with the kind of finality that said I wasn’t coming back unless I had a damn good reason.
13
BECCA
What do you wear on a date with a lumberjack MC Prez?
That was the question I kept asking myself while I paced my room, surrounded by two piles of clothes and exactly one glass of wine I hadn’t touched.
Bear wasn’t some suit-and-tie guy. He was boots, flannel, beards, and silent stares that said more than most men’s love letters. He was solid and rough and real. I didn’t want to show up in heels and look like I was trying to gentrify the damn mountains.
So I went the other way.
I’d gone to L.L. Bean earlier that day and picked out a black and green Christmasy plaid blouse—feminine, but still woodsy—and tied it at the waist for shape. Rolled the sleeves up to my elbows. Threw on a black faux fur vest over it and paired the whole thing with chunky faux-fur boots and big gold hoop earrings, because if I was going rustic, I was still gonna do it with a little flash.
Kind of like a classy biker chick who’d crashed a Hallmark movie.
I checked my reflection twice. Hair curled. Makeup light, but on point. I looked like I wasn’t trying too hard… even though I absolutely was.
My stomach flipped when I heard the knock.
Margie was already halfway to the door before I got to the hallway. “Becca, I think your mountain man’s arrived,” she teased.
“I swear if you say ‘he can come chop my firewood’—”
But then the door opened.
And I stopped breathing.
Bear stood there looking like the entireLL Bean winter cataloghad manifested into a sex dream. Brand new dark jeans. A fitted black Henley under a slate-gray North Face fleece that hugged his broad chest and made him look even bigger somehow. New boots—polished, still stiff—and his beard?
Trimmed. Clean. Full and glossy in a way that said someone had definitely touched it with expensive oil.
And the scent that hit me?
Warm spice and cedar. Like Christmas and sex and safety, all bottled up in one giant man with soulful eyes and the softest smirk.
I put a hand over my mouth without thinking. “Shit.”
He blinked. Took a second to look me over—slowly, from my boots to my earrings. And then helaughed.
