Chapter 5
BECCA
One second I was singing fa-la-las with 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 less snow bunny chic and more static-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.
And then, a single word:
“No.”
I blinked. “No? What do you mean, no?”
Finally, he flicked his gaze toward me, just for a second. Dark eyes, unreadable. Then back to the snow.
“You heard me.”
“So this is a kidnapping?” I asked, lifting my brows.
His eyes flicked over me—quick, assessing—taking in my thin frame bundled under layers of puffed-up coat, hat askew, scarf half-frozen.
“Definitely not,” he said flatly.
The words stung more than they should’ve. Not that I wanted to be kidnapped—but the fact that he wasn’t even remotely attracted? A little insulting. A little relieving. And altogether confusing.
I pressed my lips together. Mess. Total hot mess. That was me.
“Well, then, where are we going?” I demanded.
“My cabin,” he said, voice final, no room for debate.
I opened my mouth to argue—then froze as headlights flared in the opposite lane. A sedan, creeping down the mountain, suddenly fishtailed hard. Metal screamed as it slid off the road and into a shallow ditch.
I shivered, watching it.
He didn’t slow. Didn’t stop. Just kept driving, jaw locked, hands steady on the wheel.
“We should help them,” I blurted, twisting in my seat to look back at the car in the ditch. Headlights glared through the snow like panicked eyes.
His hands never loosened on the wheel. “Can’t.”
I whipped back around. “Can’t? What do you mean can’t?”
“Means we’ll end up in the same damn spot,” he said, voice low and gruff. “One truck on black ice is enough. I don’t make a habit of doubling down on stupid.”
My mouth fell open. “They could be hurt.”
“They’re not.” His gaze stayed on the road, unflinching. “Saw ’em climb out. They’ll call for help. Or hike it down the mountain if they’re desperate.”
My stomach twisted. The way he said it—like it was fact, carved in stone—made me want to scream.
Cold. Heartless. And yet… the wheel never wavered under his grip, even as the storm thickened around us.
I hugged my arms tighter around myself, watching the blur of snow swallow the road ahead. The glow I’d carried with me—Christmas music, cocoa, tinsel dreams—it all felt like it had popped, leaving me flat and hollow.
My fingers shook as I pulled out my phone, thumb flying across the screen. Text Aunt Margie. Tell her what happened.
No bars. Not even a flicker.
“Dammit,” I muttered, holding the phone up higher like that would magically pull signal out of thin air.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head tilt. “No signal up this part of the mountain,” he grunted.
Of course not. My one lifeline, gone.
I slid the phone back into my pocket, trying to keep my breathing even. Then it hit me. “Wait—I never even asked…” I glanced at him, cheeks heating. “What’s your name?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Bear.”
I blinked. “Bear?”
“Yeah.”
“No first name? No last?”
He flicked his gaze at me, just once, before returning to the storm. “Just Bear.”
My jaw dropped a little. He wasn’t joking. Dead serious.
I leaned back against the seat, staring at him like I’d fallen into some alternate universe. Out of all the names I’d expected—Hunter, Mason, even a grizzled old-fashioned—Clive—Bear hadn’t made the list.
But looking at him, all beard and brawn, it… fit.
The drive stretched on in silence, only the steady swish of the wipers and the low growl of the engine filling the cab. The snow came down thicker the higher we climbed, heavy flakes sticking to the windshield before being scraped away in jerky swipes.
I hugged my coat tighter, staring out into the white blur. Whatever “clubhouse” meant, it couldn’t be worse than sitting in a snowbank waiting for another semi to finish me off.
I was wrong.
When Bear finally swung the truck down a narrow lane with deep snow banks on either side my heart sunk. No twinkly lights or garland. It looked brown, cold. empty of any cheer.
The cabin crouched under a blanket of snow, all heavy timber and gloom. Not a single twinkle light or wreath in sight. Just dark windows, a sagging porch, and the glow of two trash-barrel firepits out front. Metal trucks ringed the lot like guard dogs, all mud-caked and chained up for snow.
If Christmas was warmth and sparkle, this place was… the opposite. It looked like a tow truck , snow plow car lot. But I wasn’t a snob. I dated a man with money and there was nothing underneath his hood.
My hand tightened around the strap of my bag. “This is it?”
Bear killed the engine and reached for the door. “Home sweet home.”
The way he said it made it sound anything but sweet.
I didn’t move. “Okay, thanks for the rescue, but if you could just take me the rest of the way to my aunt’s—”
He stopped, turned, and pinned me with those dark eyes. “Not happening. Roads’ll be shut down by morning. You’re stuck here ’til they clear.”
My stomach dipped. “How long is that?”
He shrugged, casual, like it was nothing. “Weekend. Maybe more.”
I stared out at the snow-choked lot, the barrels of fire hissing as the flakes hit them. No wreaths. No welcome. Not a scrap of Christmas cheer.
My beautiful plan to drown Aunt Margie in fa-la-la… dead before it even started.
I sat there for a long beat, the cold from outside creeping into the cab while Bear waited. Finally, with a sigh, I shoved open my door—only for it to stop short.
He was already there.
I blinked at him. Six-foot-something, broad as the truck itself, and holding the door like some kind of old-school gentleman. It didn’t fit. Not with the chain belt, the scowl, the whole mountain-man biker vibe.
Still… I murmured, “Thanks,” before sliding out.
The ground was slick, the path to the porch iced over. My boots skidded, and for one heart-thumping second I thought I was going to eat snow.
But his hand was suddenly there, firm around my elbow, steadying me like it was nothing.
Up close, the heat of him cut through the winter bite. I caught the faintest scent—spicy pine soap and something else, something darker and all man.
I swallowed, pulse doing a little skip as I straightened. “I’m fine,” I blurted, stepping quickly away.He just grunted, leading me toward the door.
The porch groaned under our boots as we climbed the last step. Bear shoved the heavy door open.
The inside was as stark as the outside—clean, yeah, but bare. Old, bulky wooden furniture filled the space, the kind my dad used to say was built in North Carolina factories before everything got outsourced to China. It looked heavy, solid, permanent.
The cabin smelled like woodsmoke and coffee grounds—warm, earthy, a little bitter.
The walls were thick pine logs, the kind that looked like they’d outlast a nuclear winter. Everything about the place felt heavy. Permanent. Like time had stopped somewhere around 1979.
There was even a rotary phone on the counter.
Green. Ugly. Coiled cord. I hadn’t seen one outside a museum.
I blinked at it. “Um… mind if I use this?”
Bear was already across the room, hanging his wet jacket on a hook and kicking off his boots. He didn’t look up. “Go ahead.”