Page 94 of Santa's Girl
His mouth crashed into mine, his hands sliding up under my sweater, cold fingers burning against my skin.
"I miss you, baby," he murmured between kisses. "Please stay with me, baby. I’m sorry."
My breath caught. I wanted to believe it. Every word. Every touch.
"Then spend Christmas with me," I whispered. "My mom’s coming. Stanley, too. If this isn’t some fling, prove it."
He froze.
Pulled back.
"I’ll think about it."
That? That gutted me.
He kissed me again, but it wasn’t the same. And when I pelted him with a snowball before he got in his truck, hoping to lighten the mood—there was no playfight.
No chase.
No kiss in a snowbank.
Just cold air, swirling snow, and a goodbye that felt like heartbreak on the edge of a long winter night.
It wasGala Night in Charlotte, and thanks to Caroline—who had practically body-snatched me with a curling iron and a makeup bag—I looked like I belonged on the red carpet. The dark green cocktail dress hugged my body in all the right places, its shimmer catching every bit of light in the ballroom. Caroline had insisted I use part of my unemployment check for a professional blowout and makeup session, and I hated to admit it, but shewas right. My brown hair gleamed under the chandeliers, my lips the perfect shade of soft red. Classy. Festive. Confident.
I was here representing the Community Center at a black-tie fundraiser for pediatric cancer. The gym we all used, hosted winter events in, even taught toddler tumbling classes in—it had been built with funds donated in memory of Grady Pearson, a 9-year-old little league player who never saw ten. His parents were here, quietly proud, and I felt honored to be asked to stand in for the Center’s director.
Caroline was already mingling, drink in hand, scanning the crowd like a cat in a birdhouse. I was making my way around the silent auction tables, smiling politely, keeping my posture straight and my nerves buried, when the lights suddenly dimmed.
A woman stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for the annual Grady Pearson Foundation Gala. Tonight, we honor not only Grady’s memory, but the generosity of those who keep his legacy alive. Please give a warm welcome to our largest donor of the evening—Calden Boone.”
Polite applause broke out around me.
Then I saw him.
Bear.
Or… not Bear.
Calden Boone.
My stomach dropped. My champagne glass nearly slipped from my hand.
There he was—on stage, under the lights, wearing a black tuxedo like he was born in one. His dark hair slicked back. Beard neatly trimmed. Jaw clenched in that familiar, unreadable way.
He looked… stunning. Commanding. Like he owned the room. And maybe he did.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What the hell?” Caroline whispered beside me. “That’s your Bear?”
I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.
He hadn’t told me.
He’d never told me his real name. Always dodging when I asked about the credit card. Shrugging off my concerns when he insisted on paying. And now he was here, announced as the top donor of the entire gala, and I didn’t even know his name was Calden.
I felt heat crawl up my neck—shame, confusion, embarrassment.
