Page 60 of Santa's Girl
I’d fallen somewhere between the firelight and the snowstorm, in the quiet way he held back when I threw myself at him, in the steady hand on my lower back, the low voice that whispered my name like it meant something.
This dinner? This fancy inn? The view, the candles, the new boots, the trimmed beard?
It was sweet. It was overwhelming. It was unnecessary.
He didn’t have to dress up or spend money to win me over.
He’d already done it.
I watched him across the table as he read the menu with that same quiet focus he gave everything else — the painting, the walk, me.
I shouldn’t have said anything about Huntley earlier. I winced just thinking about it.
I mean, who brings up their rich ex-boyfriend on a first date with a man who clearlyearnedeverything with his own hands? What a stupid, throwaway comment. But I could still hear myself back in the car—Huntley thought it was gauche.
What a mistake.
Now Bear probably thinks he has tocompetewith that — with penthouses and overpriced restaurants and perfectly pressed shirts.
But Huntley doesn’t hold a candle to Bear.
Not in grit. Not in heart. Not inanythingthat actually matters.
Bear is steady. Grounded. A man who listens, who notices, who holds the door and means it. Who protects without being possessive. Whose hands may be rough, but whose soul issoft in all the right places.
I’ll never date someone like Huntley again.
Not because he was rich.
But because he had nosubstance.
If Bear only has fifty bucks to his name, I’d still take him over a thousand Huntleys.
Because Bear?
He’sgold.
That rare kind of gold — the kind you don’t polish or put in a vault. The kind you carry close. The kind youkeep.
Dinner had settled into something soft and easy. The wine helped. So did the way Bear listened — not just with his ears, but his whole damn body. He sat across from me like there wasn’t a single place he’d rather be, and I couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.
He asked about my life in Charlotte — not the casual, “so what do you do?” small talk — but real questions. Honest ones. The kind that made you stop and think.
And so I told him the truth.
“I don’t know,” I said, stirring the last of my wine with the stem of my glass. “I feel like I’m just... patching myself together. Flitting from here to there, bouncing between jobs and cities and people who never stuck. I don’t feel grounded. I don’t feel like I’ve found my place.”
He didn’t rush in to fix it. Just watched me, those deep eyes steady.
“Truthfully,” I added, “I’m a little jealous of what you have. That mountain. Your MC. Your routine. Youknowwho you are. What you want. You’re content. You’ve built something. And I’m still trying to figure out where I even belong.”
I looked down at the table. “Aunt Margie invited me to stay a while. Said there’s plenty of room at the condo.”
He studied me for a long beat, then asked, low and deliberate, “You planning on staying past the holidays?”
I bit my lip. “I’m thinking about it. My mother might come with her boyfriend, Ray. My sister, Emma is up skiing in New England. A quiet Christmas just might be what I need.”
His hand reached across the table and caught mine — fingers warm, thumb moving lazy circles on my wrist that sent a ripple straight down my spine.
