Page 32 of Santa's Girl
Not a quick pat-on-the-back hug, but a real one. Solid. Safe. His chest was warm through his flannel, his scent all smoke and clean soap. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I didn’t feel like I was holding myself together with string.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The ache in my throat eased a little.
“Thanks,” I murmured. “I needed that and a favor.”
He gave a quiet huff, something that might’ve been a laugh.
“Guess you’re not Mr. Grinch after all,” I said into his shirt. “You do have a heart.”
“Ouch.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Have I really been that grumpy?”
“Only every other sentence,” I teased, stepping back.
The corner of his mouth lifted, just enough to show there might be a man under all that winter.
For the first time since the storm, the air between us didn’t feel sharp.
Just warm.
A small truce, sealed with the smell of woodsmoke and coffee, and the weight of his hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
I stirred the last of my cocoa with my spoon, watching the steam curl into the air. The lunch crowd had thinned; most of the guys were outside or in the garage, laughter and metal clanging drifting in through the open door. The snow had stopped falling for the first time in days, sunlight pooling on the floorboards like honey.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I said finally.
Bear looked up from his coffee. “You’re gonna anyway.”
“True.” I smiled. “If I’m still trapped up here, snowed in and all, how come everyone else seems to make it up the mountain just fine?”
He leaned back, arms crossed. “They got here the same way we did.”
I blinked. “You mean…”
“Bobcats. Arctic Cats. Snowmobiles.” He took another sip, unbothered. “I’ve got ten, fifteen guest rooms upstairs. Couple more over the barn with woodstoves. People stay here when the roads close or they don’t feel like heading back down. Easier that way.”
I blinked again. “So this place is basically a biker ski lodge.”
“Something like that.”
He said it so casually, like running a secret mountain compound full of leather and flannel was perfectly normal.
Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ve got a room here too. Don’t use it much.”
I tilted my head. “So if you’ve got a perfectly good room here, why do you live way out there in that cabin? Kind of a long commute just to come have a beer.”
His gaze met mine, steady as always. “Because I don’t bring people back to my house.”
Something about the way he said it—flat, matter-of-fact—made the air shift. I blinked, realizing what he meant.
I grinned. “Wait. So you’re telling me I’m thefirstwoman you’ve ever brought back there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dead serious. No smirk, no tease, just truth.
And somehow that landed harder than anything else he’d said all day.
I tried to play it cool, swirling my spoon through the last bit of soup. “Well,” I said lightly, “guess I should feel honored.”
