Chapter 7
BECCA
The Forge looked different in daylight.
The air was thick with the smell of coffee, grease, and something warm baking. Conversations rolled through the big room like waves—men arguing over parts, women laughing, the jukebox low and lazy in the corner.
All I wanted was something hot that didn’t come out of a packet.
McDaniel was behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a towel slung over one shoulder. “Morning, snowbird,” he called. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I said, sliding onto a stool. “Surprise me.”
He grinned. “Got fresh sourdough today. Cream of mushroom soup. Made it myself—mushrooms from the patio garden.”
I blinked. “A motorcycle club with a farm-to-table chef?”
He winked. “Ex-military. Learned to cook so I didn’t starve. There’s something about living off the land, you know?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m beginning to realize.”
The sandwich came out golden and perfect, the soup thick and rich. For the first time since the storm, my stomach and my nerves both settled. The place smelled like bread and woodsmoke, and I could almost forget the rest of it—the men’s glances, the history buzzing under every joke.
Almost.
When I stood to find the restroom, Jess was at the bar and so was the blonde—one who also was all over him last night.
Even in daylight Jess looked like the kind of woman who never lost a fight: shiny hair, dark eyes, confidence sharp enough to cut glass.
Her smile when she saw me didn’t reach her eyes.
I sighed. Here we go.
The bathroom was small, tiled, the mirror cracked at one corner. I had barely turned on the faucet when the door banged open.
Jess strode in like she owned the place.
“Of course,” I muttered. “The cliché ex-girlfriend scene. Let me guess—you’re here to warn me off Bear? Don’t bother. He’s just babysitting me.”
Her mouth curved. “You look a little old to need a babysitter.”
“Tell him that,” I said.
She moved closer, perfume and smoke trailing behind her, and before I could step back she caught my arm. Not hard, just enough that I felt it. Her voice dropped low.
“Don’t sleep with him,” she said. “You’ll never get over it if you do. Man’s addictive as hell. No one’s ever put it down on me like he did. Serious Big-D energy, too. I wish I could forget, but I can’t.”
For a heartbeat I just stared at her, caught between shock and laughter. Maybe a bit turned on. Then I gently pulled my arm free.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, my voice steady even though my pulse wasn’t. “Thanks for the PSA.”
She gave a short, humorless laugh and walked out, leaving the door swinging on its hinges and the smell of her perfume behind.
I looked at myself in the mirror—hair a mess, cheeks pink from the cold, a woman who hadn’t planned on being anybody’s problem this Christmas—and whispered, “Too late.”
I went to the kitchen, finding it a safe pace from crazy MC women, just needing a minute.
I was sipping my cocoa, half-listening to the buzz of the kitchen, when McDaniels—flour on his apron, hair wild like he’d wrestled a sack of potatoes and lost—slid a tray of cookies onto the rack and cleared his throat.
“Hey, uh… how’s your Aunt Margie doing? After, you know…
Steve.” His cheeks went red—real red. Could’ve been the heat of the ovens, sure.
Or the fact he couldn’t meet my eyes. I blinked, thrown for half a second.
Was the Clubhouse cook… into my aunt? Margie, with her no-nonsense voice and killer lemon bars?
I mean didn’t look a day over forty-eight of you asked me.
I covered my smile with a sip. “She’s doing alright,” I said slowly. “Why do you ask?” He shrugged like it was nothing, but the way he fumbled the spatula said otherwise. Huh. Interesting.
“Does your cell have signal, by chance? I need to call about my car.” He pulled out a device…
“’Satellite booster’.’” Did some weird thing with it and then magic…
I finally had a bar of signal, the first since I’d landed in this snow-globe nightmare.
My phone blinked awake, and reality came rushing back with it.
I called the insurance company.
Big mistake.
Five minutes later I was sitting at the end of the bar, staring at the grain in the wood while the voice in my ear ran through numbers that didn’t sound real. The tow alone was five hundred bucks—apparently that’s what it costs to drag a car off a mountain where even AAA won’t go.
Bear had called the garage for me, got it hauled out before the snow buried it completely. I’d thought that was a miracle.
Turns out miracles come with invoices.
The mechanic said the taillights were busted, the bumper cracked, the front end folded like paper. The ice bank had been frozen solid; I was lucky all the airbags hadn’t gone off. Lucky to be alive actually.
But “lucky” wasn’t going to cover eight to ten grand in repairs. Or the state highway patrol threatening a ticket because they could.
“Okay,” I whispered, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and ended the call. The screen went dark.
I must’ve zoned out, because I didn’t hear him until he was right there.
“What happened to your fa-la-la?” Bear’s voice was rough but not unkind. “You look like somebody popped your balloon.”
I tried to smile. “Just… reality catching up. Got laid off before the holidays, remember? And now my car’s totaled. I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix it. And apparently the state police are looking for me.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then I felt his hand settle on my shoulder—heavy, warm, grounding.
“Come here, sugar.”
Before I could argue, he pulled me in. “I’ll handle it sugarplum.”
Not a quick pat-on-the-back hug, but a real one. Solid. Safe. His chest was warm through his flannel, his scent all smoke and clean soap. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I didn’t feel like I was holding myself together with string.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The ache in my throat eased a little.
“Thanks,” I murmured. “I needed that and a favor.”
He gave a quiet huff, something that might’ve been a laugh.
“Guess you’re not Mr. Grinch after all,” I said into his shirt. “You do have a heart.”
“Ouch.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Have I really been that grumpy?”
“Only every other sentence,” I teased, stepping back.
The corner of his mouth lifted, just enough to show there might be a man under all that winter.
For the first time since the storm, the air between us didn’t feel sharp.
Just warm.
A small truce, sealed with the smell of woodsmoke and coffee, and the weight of his hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
I stirred the last of my cocoa with my spoon, watching the steam curl into the air.
The lunch crowd had thinned; most of the guys were outside or in the garage, laughter and metal clanging drifting in through the open door.
The snow had stopped falling for the first time in days, sunlight pooling on the floorboards like honey.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I said finally.
Bear looked up from his coffee. “You’re gonna anyway.”
“True.” I smiled. “If I’m still trapped up here, snowed in and all, how come everyone else seems to make it up the mountain just fine?”
He leaned back, arms crossed. “They got here the same way we did.”
I blinked. “You mean…”
“Bobcats. Arctic Cats. Snowmobiles.” He took another sip, unbothered. “I’ve got ten, fifteen guest rooms upstairs. Couple more over the barn with woodstoves. People stay here when the roads close or they don’t feel like heading back down. Easier that way.”
I blinked again. “So this place is basically a biker ski lodge.”
“Something like that.”
He said it so casually, like running a secret mountain compound full of leather and flannel was perfectly normal.
Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ve got a room here too. Don’t use it much.”
I tilted my head. “So if you’ve got a perfectly good room here, why do you live way out there in that cabin? Kind of a long commute just to come have a beer.”
His gaze met mine, steady as always. “Because I don’t bring people back to my house.”
Something about the way he said it—flat, matter-of-fact—made the air shift. I blinked, realizing what he meant.
I grinned. “Wait. So you’re telling me I’m the first woman you’ve ever brought back there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dead serious. No smirk, no tease, just truth.
And somehow that landed harder than anything else he’d said all day.
I tried to play it cool, swirling my spoon through the last bit of soup. “Well,” I said lightly, “guess I should feel honored.”
“You should,” he said simply, standing to grab another log for the fire.
But as I watched him move—broad shoulders, easy stride, the kind of quiet that filled a room—I felt something bloom in my chest that had nothing to do with soup or snowstorms.
Because suddenly, the idea of being the first woman he’d ever let past those walls felt like its own kind of magic.
And somehow, that thrilled me more than the snowmobile ride ever could.
The bar was buzzing again by late afternoon — laughter, music, the sound of cues cracking against balls. A few of the guys had started a friendly game in the corner, and I watched the cue ball spin across the felt, perfect, controlled.
I hadn’t played in forever. Not since Huntley.
I was just messing around last night with Jinx, trying to fit in and not get overly noticed.
But Huntley and I, we spent half our weekends in fancy pool halls downtown, teaching me how to line up shots and call them like I was in a league.
I’d learned quick — I’d had to — because losing to Huntley meant enduring hours of smug grins and backseat coaching.
Now, though? I wanted to play again, but for me.
Not to impress anyone.
And maybe a little to wipe that cool look off Bear’s face.
I leaned against the table, twirling a cue. “What do you say, mountain man? One game.”
Bear raised an eyebrow, slow and skeptical. “Honey, I don’t just play pool.”