Page 96 of Santa's Girl
I ducked behind a column and opened Safari.
Calden Boone. Appalachia.
Search.
“The elusive recluse of the Smokies”
“Billionaire heir to Boone Timber and Land—rumored to own thousands of acres under dozens of shell corporations.”
“Only seen a few times a year—usually for charity events or local disaster response.”
“Unmarried. No known family. No public statements.”
“No interviews. No press.”
“Most locals just call him a ghost.”
My stomach dropped.
The man who slow-danced with me under Christmas lights, who brought me coffee in a chipped mug, who made me believe I wasn’t broken beyond repair—that man was him?
He had let me believe he was poor. Modest. Just a rugged MC guy with a haunted past.
Meanwhile, he was Appalachia’s own Batman—reclusive, loaded, layered in secrets so deep I probably hadn’t even scratched the surface.
He never lied outright.
No. That would’ve been too obvious.
Instead, he let me fill in the blanks. Let me make assumptions. Let me play house in his cabin while he kept entire pieces of himself locked away.
And the worst part?
I loved him anyway.
My chest cracked open under the weight of that realization. I couldn’t breathe.
But I could act.
If he wanted to hide, fine. If he wanted to treat me like some flannel fling tucked into a holiday fantasy, fine.
But I wasn’t going to let him see me crumble.
Not here. Not tonight.
Not in this dress.
I smoothed the satin across my hips, reapplied my lipstick in a silver-plated mirror on the wall, and squared my shoulders.
I would play his game now.
Except I’d play it better.
I scanned the room, zeroing in on the first man who looked remotely handsome and not emotionally unavailable. He was tall, probably in finance, wearing an expensive suit and smiling like he owned the damn room. His champagne glass was still full, and he had no wedding ring.
Perfect.
I walked straight up to him, heels clicking like war drums on marble.
