Page 66 of Santa's Girl

---

Shame.

Need.

My phone buzzed again.

JINX

10 minutes out.

Good. Maybe he’d talk some sense into me.

Or knock me out cold. Honestly, I deserved either.

Because the truth?

I had everything.

And I’d trade it all just to start tonight over — and do right by her.

I was on my second whiskey when I heard it.

“Bear.”

I turned. Donnie from the shop was squinting at me over the bar rail, holding a Coors in one hand, grease still under his fingernails.

“The hell’s goin’ on with that Prius?” he asked, sliding onto the stool beside me. “Banged up like it got in a bar fight with a snowplow. It yours?”

“Nah,” I said, slow. “Fix it.”

He blinked. “What?”

I turned toward him. “Fix it. Full work-up. New panels, touch-up, detail, everything. Put it on my account including the tow.”

Donnie frowned. “That Becca’s car?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Just don’t tell her. Tell her the insurance came through after all. Say… I don’t know, DOT ruled it a snowplow incident. Fault was with the city or county or whatever. She’s clear. Everything’s covered.”

He stared at me like I’d lost my damn mind.

I slammed my fist lightly on the bar. “Make it sound good, Donnie. She’ll buy it. You just take care of the rest.”

He raised both hands. “Okay, okay. Boss, ma’am. Say no more.”

Everyone in Pigeon Forge knew who I was. And when I saidhandle it,they didn’t ask twice.

I sat back, nursing what was left of the whiskey, when I heard boots crunch behind me.

“Perez,” someone said — voice familiar, loud.

I turned. Rego. Local landscaper. Always smelled like mulch and diesel.

“No patch tonight?” he asked, eyes on my plain jeans and the North Face fleece. “No kutte?”

I flicked the edge of the zip-up with two fingers.

“Rollin’ in this,” I said dryly. “Don’t ask.”

Rego grinned, whistled low. “Damn. You got yourself arealdate, huh?”

---