Santa’s Girl

Chapter 1

BECCA

The roses showed up first.

A dozen long-stemmed, red as sin, sitting on my porch like they’d wandered there by mistake.

No card, but I didn’t need one.

Two days before Thanksgiving, after months of radio silence, Huntley Graham Beckingworth was suddenly “thinking of me.”

The text had come an hour earlier. Just one word.

Hey.

Like we hadn’t broken up in a screaming match on a humid July night last year. Like he hadn’t spent the last six or so months pretending I didn’t exist.

I shoved the vase onto my kitchen counter with a little more force than necessary, grabbed my phone, and hit Caroline’s contact. She picked up on the first ring.

“Please tell me these are from a secret admirer,” I said. “One who’s tall, dark, handsome, and not allergic to Christmas joy.”

There was the click of her keyboard in the background. “Babe, I’m looking right now. Ohhh… hold on.”

That tone meant she’d found something juicy.

“Huntley’s been dating Kensley McBride,” she announced. “You know, old money, blonde hair, always in pearls? Head of marketing for the city hospital.”

I snorted. “Of course.”

“Pictures of them at fundraisers, charity galas, that golf tournament in May—” Caroline paused, and I could practically hear her scroll. “And… here it is. Charlotte gossip page. Spill the Sweet Tea says they broke up last week.”

I stared at the roses. “So what you’re telling me is… I’m not a person, I’m the rebound ego boost.”

“Ding ding ding.”

The heat in my chest flared. “Nope. Not doing it. I’m not some convenient holiday arm candy.”

Caroline laughed. “Remember the church benefit when the Santa they hired got the flu? You begged him to fill in and he refused because the suit was ‘unflattering.’”

I groaned. “And the tree thing. How he wouldn’t let me get a real one because they ‘made the house messy.’”

“Allergic to pine needles and joy,” she agreed. “Girl, you’re better off single and decorating your own place like the North Pole exploded.”

She wasn’t wrong. Still, the holidays were coming, and yeah, I was a little lonely. But not enough to rewind a year’s worth of progress just because Huntley’s rich-girl fling ended.

This year, I was going to make Christmas mine again—on my terms.

Even if I had to do it alone.

I didn’t text him back.

Didn’t call. Didn’t even fire off the “wrong girl, wrong year” reply I was tempted to send.

Instead, the next morning I carried the roses into the office and set them on the desk of Mrs. Dana, our gray-haired secretary whose husband had passed in September. Her eyes went wide.

“For me?” she asked, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Absolutely for you,” I said. “And no, they’re not from a secret admirer, so don’t get too excited.”

She laughed, and for a moment, it was worth it just to see her smile. Huntley could keep his sudden nostalgia. I was putting those flowers to better use.

Thanksgiving crept up faster than I was ready for. Usually, it was loud and chaotic—my mom in the kitchen, my younger sister Emma arguing with me over pie flavors, Stanley pawing my thigh begging for scraps…

This year, it was just me, Mom, her boyfriend Ray, and Stanley.

Emma had called last week, all breezy and casual, to say she was staying up in New England to spend the holiday with her roommate’s family. “They have a ski lodge,” she’d said, like that explained everything.

I told her it was fine. It wasn’t fine.

Ray was nice enough—kind, handy, the sort of guy who could fix a leaky sink without calling a plumber. But he wasn’t Dad. And as much as I liked him, his presence still made the table feel… different.

Stanley, at least, stayed loyal, curling up in my lap during dessert and eyeing the pumpkin pie like he was planning a heist.

After dinner, I sat on the couch with a mug of peppermint tea, scrolling through pictures of friends gathered with their families, and tried not to think about how quiet my own house felt.

The holidays had a way of magnifying the empty spaces.

By Friday night, Caroline decided I needed “a change of scenery.”

Her words.

“We’re going out,” she announced over the phone. “Drinks. Cute outfits. Preferably somewhere with male options that don’t live in your mother’s zip code.”

I groaned. “I’m not downloading a dating app.”

“Becca—”

“Nope. I am not swiping through headless torso pics like I’m shopping for melons. I like meeting people in real life.”

“Fine. Then we’re doing real life. Wear something hot.”

An hour later, we walked into an upscale bar in downtown Charlotte. Soft jazz, low lighting, bartenders in suspenders—it was the kind of place where the cocktails came with edible flowers and a bill that made you blink twice.

It was also full of men who looked like they spent more time on their appearance than I did.

Designer shirts, watch faces big enough to land planes on, hair so precisely styled it could double as architecture. One guy at the bar flexed in the mirror while pretending to check his phone. Another’s manicure caught the light when he raised his glass.

I nudged Caroline. “Is that guy wearing eyebrow gel?”

She took a sip of her drink, eyes sparkling. “Oh, definitely. And that one over there? Spray tan.”

I glanced around the room, feeling a little like I’d stumbled into a fashion spread titled Eligible Bachelors of Instagram.

Not that I was looking. Not really.

But I took another sip of my cranberry martini, scanning the crowd.

“That one over there,” I murmured to Caroline, tilting my head toward a tall guy in skinny jeans so tight they looked painted on, “looks better in those than I do.”

Caroline snorted into her champagne.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Just no. I’d rather kiss Stanley at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Doggy breath and all.”

She grinned. “That’s a bold statement.”

“It’s an honest one.”

A guy with a jawline sharp enough to open envelopes strolled past, doused in cologne strong enough to count as a chemical hazard.

I turned back to Caroline. “See? This is why I don’t date. The only men here with calluses are the ones lifting free weights at Equinox.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m selective,” I corrected, finishing my drink.

I were, this wasn’t it.

Caroline was mid-story about her latest dating app disaster when the air in the room shifted.

I didn’t have to look to know why.

I could feel it.

Sure enough, in through the door walked Huntley Graham Beckingworth—perfect hair, perfect blazer, perfect smug smile—flanked by his three best friends, all looking like they’d just stepped out of a country club catalog shoot.

I froze. “Oh no.”

Caroline followed my gaze, her lips curving into a slow, wicked grin. “Well, well, well…”

“Don’t. Say. Anything.” I slid lower in my seat, scanning for an escape route.

The bar was crowded. The only thing between me and the door was a potted plant in the corner—tall, leafy, and suddenly my best friend.

I scooted toward it, trying to make myself smaller.

“Becca.” Caroline’s voice was amused. “You look like you’re hiding from the paparazzi.”

“I’m hiding from the ex,” I hissed.

From my leafy cover, I risked a peek. Huntley was laughing at something one of his buddies said, drink in hand, completely at ease.

WTF. Did our phones still track each other somehow? No—he still lived nearby, sure, but the odds of running into him here, tonight of all nights, were ridiculous.

I could just stay here, let him enjoy his overpriced bourbon, and slip out later… except the exit was on the other side of the bar. Which meant to leave, I’d have to walk right past him.

Of course.

Caroline’s eyes went wide as the waitress set two martinis on our table. “Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” she said, nodding toward Huntley.

I stared at the drinks like they were ticking bombs.

“Oh, hell no,” Caroline muttered.

“Tempted to send them back,” I said under my breath.

“Tempted? Honey, I’m ready to launch them.”

But instead, we just let them sit there, untouched.

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the cavalry from arriving.

Three perfectly coiffed businessmen in designer blazers appeared at our table, Huntley in the lead, looking every inch the man who thought the world was better now that he’d decided to grace it with his attention.

“Becca,” he said warmly, like we’d just seen each other last week. “What are the odds?”

“Small world,” I said tightly. Caroline kicked me under the table.

They pulled up chairs without asking. For thirty endless minutes, it was small talk about mutual acquaintances, his latest business ventures, his golf handicap. Every so often, Huntley’s hand would brush mine like it was an accident.

Finally, I had enough. I sat up straighter. “Actually, I should probably tell you—I’m seeing someone.”

Huntley’s brows shot up. “Oh?”

“Yep. He lives up in the mountains. Rugged type. Keeps me warm by chopping firewood with his bare hands.” I smiled sweetly. “I’m spending the holidays up there.”

Caroline nearly choked on her champagne.

Huntley leaned in, a flicker of something—challenge, maybe—sparking in his eyes. “That’s cute, Bec. But we had something real. And I think we could again.”

Before I could lean back, he went for it—closing the space like we were in some kind of rom-com reunion scene.

I turned my head at the last second. His lips brushed my cheek instead. “Don’t,” I said quietly. “You had your shot. You blew it.”

He leaned in, close enough that the familiar scent of his cologne—the one I’d bought him two Christmases ago—wrapped around me like an old song I didn’t want stuck in my head.

My eyes shut before I could stop them. His hand came up, brushing my hair back from my ear the way he used to, fingertips grazing my skin.

A soft kiss landed on the side of my neck. Once, that would have been enough to make my knees weak.

But that was before.

Before he started in about the five pounds I’d gained last winter from making fudge for the senior center. Before he lectured me on how laminated brows were “in” now, and why didn’t I keep up with trends.

Before he’d looked at me at last year’s New Year’s Eve party and asked—loud enough for his mother to hear—why I wasn’t wearing the Christian Serrano blouse she’d bought me for Christmas.

The warmth of his breath on my skin chilled fast.

I opened my eyes, stepped back, and let every ounce of old hurt harden into steel.

“Wow,” I said lightly. “You almost had me for a second there. The cologne, the sweet talk… real smooth.”

Huntley smiled like he’d already won. “See? We’ve still got it.”

“No,” I said, voice steady. “What we had was me overlooking the fact that you could make me feel special and small in the same breath.”

His smile faltered.

Caroline stood, tossing some bills on the table for our drinks. “We’re done here.”

I grabbed my coat, sliding into it like armor. “Enjoy your night, Huntley. Maybe laminate your own brows while you’re at it.”

We walked out before he could reply, the blast of cold night air a relief after the stifling heat of the bar.

By the time we reached the sidewalk, Caroline was grinning. “That was brutal. I’m proud.”

“I’m done playing holiday ghost-of-girlfriends-past,” I said. “I’ve got better things to do.”

We’d made it halfway to the door when Huntley’s hand closed around my arm.

“Becca—wait.” His voice cracked, just a little. “I’m sorry. I’ve changed. I thought she was what I wanted, but…” He swallowed hard. “It was you. It’s always been you.”

Snow swirled outside the windows, casting pale light over his face. “You’re beautiful as you are,” he said. “Your light—it shines from within, not from shimmer powder.”

For one heartbeat, I saw the man I’d once loved. The one who made me laugh until my cheeks hurt, who knew my coffee order by heart.

Then I remembered how easily he’d dimmed that light when it didn’t suit him.

“Too bad you figured it out too late,” I said.

I pulled free, stepped outside, and let the cold hit me full in the face. The snowflakes stung, but they were honest.

Behind me, Huntley stood in the doorway—jaw cut sharp, fists clenched, eyes burning into me.

Looking at me the way I’d wished he would a year ago.

But loving him wasn’t a mistake I was willing to make again.

I turned away, the snow swallowing the sound of my boots on the sidewalk, and didn’t look back.