Page 65 of Santa's Girl
I was wired too tight, sick in the gut, and caught somewhere between guilt and wanting to turn the damn Escalade around and knock on her door like a man with a plan instead of a problem.
But I stayed where I was. Watching the whiskey. Feeling the weight of my own mistakes settle in like frost on a windshield.
She was too good for this.
Too good for a man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself long enough to make her feel safe.
And the truth?
I didn’t just want her in the dark with her legs around me.
I wanted her in themorning.In the kitchen. In my shirt. In my world.
And now I wasn’t sure if I’d get the chance to prove it.
They were circling now. Like moths. Like sharks.
Perfume and glitter and drunk little laughs too loud for this early in the night. One leaned on the bar, giving me her side profile like I was supposed to take the bait. Another twirled her hair and pretended to be fascinated by the dart board she wasn’t playing.
I didn’t even look.
I just sat there, whiskey untouched, eyes fixed on nothing.
Because all I could think about… washer.
And how I’d lied.
Not with my mouth. I didn’t say the Escalade was mine. But I didn’t say it wasn’t, either. And I definitely didn’t say I’d booked the wine thing on a black Amex with no limit. Not because I was trying to impress her.
Because I was tryingnotto.
Because Becca was the kind of woman who looked past all that. And for once, I wanted to be seen the way Ireally am.
Not what I have. Not what I inherited. Not the damn money.
I still wore Walmart flannel. Still bought my boots for $25 a pair until they wore through. Still lived like I had to make things last, because most of the time, that’s what being a manwas.
And now here I was, flush with more money than half the Wall Street boys I’d seen on TV, sitting in a dive bar, feeling like shit for swiping a card I never wanted to carry in the first place.
Because the woman Iwanted—reallywanted — had looked at the menu and ordered a damn soup so she wouldn’t cost me too much.
And if that didn’t gut me, nothing would.
Because she thought I was broke.
And she didn’t care.
She likedme.
Not Bear with the Amex. Not Bear with the Escalade.
Just Bear.
And I’d still managed to ruin it — to manhandle her up against a brick wall and make her feel like just another scratch to itch.
My throat burned. Not from the whiskey. From something else.
Guilt.
