Page 59 of Santa's Girl
But he reached across the table, just touched my hand with his — warm, rough, steady.
“You’re not a salad-for-dinner kind of woman,” he said softly.
I looked up at him, startled.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk.
Just looked at me like heknew.
Like he’d been paying attention.
And in that quiet room, with snow falling and candles flickering and a man across from me who dressed up and slowed downjust for me—I felt something deeper than lust bloom in my chest.
Something terrifying.
I saw the flicker of a frown cross his face the moment I said “salad.” It was subtle — barely there — but I felt it. The shift. The tension that edged into his jaw like I’d just unknowingly failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
So I backtracked, fast.
“Or…” I offered, forcing a laugh, “I could start with a small cup of soup. The butternut squash sounds nice.”
He didn’t say anything right away.
I kept going. “It’s just, Margie’s been prepping for weeks. She made this huge lasagna casserole for lunch. You know, one of those deep-dish ones with, like, six layers of cheese? I couldn’t say no. I’m still kind of full.”
That did it.
Bear nodded, just once. The tension eased from his shoulders, and his lips curved — not into a full smile, but that little near-smirk he gave when something settled right in his gut.
And inside, I exhaled.
Phew.
We were going to be okay.
But even as I looked over the rest of the menu like maybe I’d order something else, my brain was spiraling.
This place is expensive.
We're going to have to split the bill.
He’s not rich. He’s not even close.
I’d seen how Bear lived. The cabin was modest. No frills. The essentials and not much more. No flashy gear. No unnecessary gadgets. Just warmth, wood, and that worn-in kind of comfort that comes from years of doing everything yourself.
I couldn’t imagine that being the president of an MC came with a salary. Whatever he had, he probably scraped together. And now he was using it onthis?
On me?
The thought made my chest pinch.
I didn’t need this level of show. I didn’t need to be impressed. Hell, I didn’twanthim to think he had to put on some polished version of himself just to keep me interested.
Truthfully?
I was already his.
He didn’t know it yet — probably hadn’t let himself believe it — but it was true.
