Page 11 of Santa's Girl
5
BECCA
One second I was singingfa-la-laswith Mariah, sipping the last of my overpriced peppermint mocha.
The next, a huge mountain man/trucker type was yelling at me about snowbanks and semis while I tried to figure out which way was up.
I was dazed, confused, half-covered in snow, and fully scarfed. My hair had escaped from my beanie in a way I was sure looked lesssnow bunny chicand morestatic-shocked raccoon.
He was massive. Broad shoulders, beard like he’d just walked out of a lumberjack calendar, chain hanging from his belt. The kind of guy you crossed the street to avoid if you saw him in an alley at night.
And apparently, my accidental savior.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Fingers still shaking, I fumbled it out. A text from Caroline lit up the screen:
Whoa. Did eSanta just kidnap to you?
Before I could reply, another bubble popped up:
Reminder: your “new boyfriend” is supposed to be a mountain man. Don’t blow your own cover, Bec.
I looked from my phone to the actual, very real mountain man currently grumbling as he slammed the tailgate of his truck shut.
If Caroline could see him right now, she’d die.
The cab was warm, the heater blasting, but I was still shivering a little as he pulled onto the snowy road.
For the first few miles, all I could do was stare at the windshield wipers swishing back and forth, trying not to think about the semi that had almost flattened me.
But eventually my eyes drifted sideways.
His hands gripped the wheel—big, rough, veins and muscle shifting under the thick forearms braced against the turn. The thermal shirt he wore was pushed up just enough that I caught a hint of black ink curling down from beneath the sleeve. Tattoos.
I tried not to look at his beard, but it was impossible. Dark, thick, a little snow still clinging to the edges like frost on pine branches. His eyes were darker still, focused on the road, sharp enough to cut through the storm.
He was scary. Big. Brawn stacked on brawn.
And yet…
Kind of sexy.
Not in the slick, tailored way Huntley had been—designer suits, shiny cufflinks, haircuts scheduled two weeks apart. No, this man was the opposite of all that. Raw edges. Heavy boots. A scowl carved deep.
Nothing like my country club, ladder-climbing ex.
Which, in a strange way, made him that much harder not to look at.
The silence stretched so long I started to feel like maybe I should’ve just taken my chances with the snowbank.
I cleared my throat. “So… do you always tackle strangers on the side of the road, or am I just lucky?”
He didn’t even blink.
“Right. Strong, silent type. Got it.” I rubbed my hands together in front of the heater, forcing a laugh. “Listen, I really appreciate the rescue, but I don’t want to be a bother. If you could just take me to my aunt’s place?—”
I rattled off Aunt Margie’s address, waiting for him to punch it into his phone or ask me to.
Instead, he kept his eyes glued to the road. Hands steady on the wheel. Jaw like granite.
