Page 30 of Santa's Girl
The engine came to life with a growl, deep and steady. She settled close, arms circling my waist, her breath quick against my neck as I eased the throttle. The vibration of the machine ran up through both of us, the rhythm matching the pulse of the mountain itself.
We cut through the drifts, the world narrowing to snow and wind and the steady hum beneath us. Trees flashed past, their branches glittering in the pale sun. She held tighter when we hitthe open stretch, and I caught the faint sound of her laughter through the helmet’s muffling.
The road to the Forge wound through the woods, familiar turns I could ride blindfolded. But today everything looked different—brighter, sharper. The cold bit my face, the air smelled like pine and woodsmoke, and somewhere behind me Becca was seeing it all for the first time.
Halfway down the trail she leaned in closer, her voice just loud enough for me to hear over the engine. “You do this a lot?”
“Every chance I get,” I called back.
The ride down was quick and quiet. The storm had finally loosened its grip; sunlight spilled over the ridge, the kind that makes the whole mountain look polished. For the first time in days, it felt like the world might be breathing again.
When we rolled into the Forge’s yard, the sound hit first—music, voices, the clatter of bottles. Same place, new day. And her, sitting behind me, laughing as she pulled off her helmet, shaking out her hair like she’d been born to live up here.
I cut the engine. Every head on the porch turned.
She was dressed different today—those dark leggings and that soft, cream-colored sweater that looked like something from a catalog. It caught the light, made her look out of place and somehow perfect all at once. The kind of thing that made a man’s hands itch, not for the fabric, but for the warmth underneath it.
And judging by the way the men on the porch went still, I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
I climbed off the sled, jaw tight, voice flat. “Inside, sugar plum. Lunch’s on the house.”
She smiled up at me, bright and easy, and I caught myself returning it before I could stop.
The chatter around us picked back up, but I felt the shift. She wasn’t invisible anymore. Every man in the room saw what I’dbeen fighting to ignore since the first night she’d walked through my door.
I told myself it didn’t matter. She’d be gone when the roads cleared. I’d go back to my quiet and my ghosts.
But as she pushed open the clubhouse door, sunlight catching on her hair, one thought hit hard and clear:
Yeah. Good luck with that, Boone.
7
BECCA
The Forge looked different in daylight.
The air was thick with the smell of coffee, grease, and something warm baking. Conversations rolled through the big room like waves—men arguing over parts, women laughing, the jukebox low and lazy in the corner.
All I wanted was something hot that didn’t come out of a packet.
McDaniel was behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a towel slung over one shoulder. “Morning, snowbird,” he called. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I said, sliding onto a stool. “Surprise me.”
He grinned. “Got fresh sourdough today. Cream of mushroom soup. Made it myself—mushrooms from the patio garden.”
I blinked. “A motorcycle club with a farm-to-table chef?”
He winked. “Ex-military. Learned to cook so I didn’t starve. There’s something about living off the land, you know?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m beginning to realize.”
The sandwich came out golden and perfect, the soup thick and rich. For the first time since the storm, my stomachand my nerves both settled. The place smelled like bread and woodsmoke, and I could almost forget the rest of it—the men’s glances, the history buzzing under every joke.
Almost.
When I stood to find the restroom, Jess was at the bar and so was the blonde—one who also was all over him last night. Even in daylight Jess looked like the kind of woman who never lost a fight: shiny hair, dark eyes, confidence sharp enough to cut glass. Her smile when she saw me didn’t reach her eyes.
