Page 10 of Santa's Girl
“I’m not going with you,” she said, chin tilted, voice trembling more from shock than defiance.
“Sweetheart,” I ground out, jerking my chin at the Prius half-buried in the bank, front hood folded like a card, “that thing ain’t moving. And standing out here waiting for a tow? You’ll be a pancake under the next semi that comes flying down this curve.”
Her lips pressed tight. She knew I was right. Didn’t make her any happier.
“Fine,” she said at last. “But for the record, I shared my location with about a dozen people already.”
“Good,” I muttered, turning toward my truck. “They’ll know where to pick up your body if you freeze to death.”
She gasped, like I’d just suggestedI’dbe the one to leave her body in a ditch. Then, before I could stop her, she whipped out her phone, snapped a picture of me, and sent it off with a furious flurry of thumbs.
“In case I’m never seen again,” she said matter-of-factly.
I would’ve rolled my eyes if I was the eye-rolling type. Instead, I kept my face carved from stone.
Figures. Big guy, beard, heavy boots, chain on my belt—first assumption is criminal.
Well… she wasn’t wrong. I was a criminal.
Just not the kind that hurt women.
And damn if it didn’t burn me that she couldn’t see the difference.
“Hold up.” She planted her boots in the snow like she was about to wrestle me. “We’re not leaving my stuff.”
“Stuff?” I glanced back at the Prius.
She nodded firmly. “All of it. Boxes, bags, everything.”
I growled low in my throat. The snow was still coming down heavy, wind picking up, and she wanted to argue about…crap.
“Lady, it’s junk.”
“It’s Christmas decorations,” she shot back, eyes flashing. “And they’re not staying here.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, muttering a string of curses under my breath. Then I stomped back to her car, popped the hatch, and started hauling boxes into the bed of my truck.
Tinsel. Stockings. A plastic reindeer with a missing ear. By the third armload I was muttering, “Son of a bitch…” but I kept going.
She didn’t lift a finger—already sitting in the cab with her small hands spread in front of the heater vents, cheeks pink from the blast of warmth.
By the time I shut the tailgate and climbed into the driver’s seat, I was snow-soaked and irritated beyond measure.
And that’s when she giggled.
I turned, slow. “What’s so funny?”
Her gaze flicked to my beard. “Uh… you have tinsel in it.”
Sure enough, a silver strand had gotten tangled in my whiskers.
I ripped it free, tossed it onto the floorboard, and grunted. “Great.”
She was still smiling.
I tightened my grip on the wheel. After everything—the near-death tackle, hauling her damn Christmas explosion into my truck, the storm—she was laughing.
I hated Christmas. And right then, sitting next to Miss Holiday Cheer herself, I felt like the world’s biggest Grinch.
