Page 41 of Santa's Girl
“Bear,” she said, soft and sweet.
I didn’t turn around right away. Just kept trying to light the firewood like it mattered. Like it could distract me from the sound of her bare feet on the floor, the way her voice hit me low in the gut.
“Come here,” she said.
I turned. She was standing there in one of my flannels, half buttoned, hair around her face. Eyes too bright.
“Becca…” I warned.
She stepped in close, close enough I could feel her body heat through the shirt and nothing else. She looked up at me, hopeful and flushed and swaying slightly.
Then she rose onto her toes and tried to kiss me.
I caught her shoulders, held her back with more care than strength. “You're drunk.”
She blinked. “I thought you wanted this. Wantedme.”
My jaw clenched. “We’ve been building toward something, yeah. But not like this.”
Her bottom lip pushed out. She looked… not hurt, exactly. Just confused. A little undone.
“What kind of man do you think I am?” I said, brushing a piece of hair from her face. “Wait. Don’t answer that.”
She gave a small, sheepish smile. “I think you’re good.”
I sighed. “Well, that’s unfortunate timing.”
I nodded toward the bedroom. “Drink all the water I left out. Get some sleep. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
She shuffled off with exaggerated drama, muttering something about letdowns and Big D energy. With a sigh, I stood as the fire starting catching in the hearth, passed her in the hall went into the bathroom to turn on the shower for her. Then I tested the water with my hand.
“I’m not helping you strip,” I called. “And don’t fall in.”
She giggled behind the door. I walked away before the sound could do any more damage.
I decided to head down to the family room, I sank onto the couch and buried my head under five pillows. Drank a whiskey or two by the fire. Started whistling just to fill the silence. Tried not to think about the woman in my shower, half-naked, drunk, and wanting me.
Tried harder not to think about how badly I wanted her back. I waited until it was quiet upstairs before venturing back to my own room. Somehow, I’d managed to pass out. Fitful sleep, sure, but sleep. Long enough that the fire had burned low and the room had gone cold.
Then—
creak.
My eyes snapped open.
Another floorboard.
Then the door. Slow. Squeaking like it had all the time in the world.
I didn’t move. Just smirked to myself under the blanket.She’s coming to my bed. To my room.
What the hell am I going to do now?
She was probably still drunk. Or close to it. No way she’d be this bold sober. I rolled over, heart already picking up pace.
She stood in the doorway in nothing but a bra and underwear. Bare feet. Bare legs. Soft, smooth skin lit only by moonlight. Her hair was still damp. Her eyes were half-lidded. And before I could blink, she was lifting the blanket and sliding in like she belonged there.
She pressed against me, sighing, warm and content.
