Chapter 7 #2
“Oh? What, you only play serious tournaments?”
He smirked. “Club rules. You gotta bet something.”
I paused, pretending to think while my pulse kicked up.
A bet.
I could do that.
“All right,” I said. “If I win, I get to decorate this place for Christmas. And I mean full-on Christmas. I’m talking 18-foot Santa blowups, glitter bombs, mistletoe in every doorway, and more Mariah Carey than you can possibly stand.”
He stared at me like I’d just suggested sacrificing his Harley to the holiday gods. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
He shook his head, lips twitching. “Okay, deal. But it’s never gonna happen, sweetheart.”
“Oh, it’s happening.” I chalked my cue, fighting a grin. “What do you get if you win?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just took the stick from my hand, turned it slow, rubbed the chalk against the tip, and stepped in close enough that I could feel the heat off him. His voice dropped low, just for me.
“You stay up on my mountain one more night.”
The words hit like a shiver straight through me. Goosebumps raced down my arms before I could hide them.
I looked up at him, trying to keep my voice even. “That’s it? That’s what you want?”
He smiled, small and sure. “That’s all I need.”
For a heartbeat, I thought about throwing the game. Letting him win. Staying.
But pride’s a funny thing, and mine had just stood up and squared its shoulders.
“Better hope you’re good, Bear,” I said, lining up my first shot. “Because I really, really want to fa-la-la this place.”
He chuckled, stepping back to watch. “Show me what you got, sugar plum.”
The cue ball snapped against the rack, the balls exploded apart, and somewhere in the middle of that sound I realized:
This wasn’t about Christmas anymore.
I let him break.
He leaned over the table, easy confidence in every line of his body. The cue cracked against the rack, balls scattering, two dropping clean into the corner pockets. He straightened, flashed me a grin that said your move, city girl.
“Not bad,” I said. “You sure you don’t play tournaments?”
“Wouldn’t be fair,” he said, voice smug. “You sure you want to keep that bet?”
“Oh, I’m sure.” I chalked my cue, took my time lining up my shot, and sank a stripe so smooth it could’ve been luck.
It wasn’t.
I played dumb for the first few turns. Let him get comfortable.
He’d lean close to call a shot, glance at me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out.
Meanwhile, I was already two steps ahead, counting angles in my head, letting the rhythm come back like it never left.
After he missed an easy side-pocket, I leaned against the table, cue balanced loosely in my hand. “So, Bear… what’s a man gotta do to get one of those big bad biker patches?”
He looked up from resetting his stance, distracted just long enough for me to walk around and call, “Two ball, corner pocket.”
It dropped.
Then another.
And another.
It didn’t take long before his smirk started to fade.
By the time I cleared half the table, his brows were pulled tight and he’d stopped trying to talk.
I spun the cue in my hands, tried not to grin too big. “You look surprised.”
He leaned on his stick, eyes narrowing. “You played me.”
“I played pool.”
“You hustled me.”
I shrugged. “Huntley taught me a few things. Figured I’d put ‘em to good use.”
He huffed out a laugh—half disbelief, half admiration. “You let me think you didn’t know what you were doing.”
I lined up my last shot, the cue sliding smooth through my fingers. “Yeah, well… you seemed so sure of yourself. Didn’t want to bruise your ego right away.”
The eight ball dropped with a clean, satisfying thunk. I straightened, tapped the cue against the floor, and grinned. “Looks like it’s Christmas, Grinch.”
Bear stared at the table, then at me, and finally shook his head. “I should’ve known.”
“You should’ve,” I said, grabbing my beer.
He pushed off from the table, voice low. “You conned the president of the Iron Forge MC for tinsel and Mariah Carey?”
“Yep,” I said. “And you, sir, have to live with it.”
For a second he just looked at me—long, slow, and something close to dangerous in his eyes—before his mouth twitched into that rare, quiet smile.
“Guess we’re decking the halls then, sugar plum.”
And just like that, the deal was done.
Only later, when I caught him still watching me from across the room, did I realize the bet might’ve been the first round of something bigger neither of us was quite ready to name.
The afternoon slid toward dusk, the golden light outside turning the snow to glitter. I was still basking in my pool-shark glory when the front doors opened and a rush of cold air swept through the clubhouse.
One by one, men came in from the cold—boots stomping, laughter echoing, leather creaking—and with them came women and a handful of kids bundled up like little marshmallows.
I blinked. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, it’s just church,” a blonde woman said, unwinding her scarf.
“Church?” I looked around. “I don’t see a steeple, and no one’s carrying hymn books.”
The woman grinned. “You don’t know much about MCs, do you, honey? Church means a meeting. They’ve got a private room in the basement. Men only. They drop us up here while they talk business.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound like I totally knew that.
Two other women joined her, setting trays of food on the bar. “I’m Tasha. That’s Dee.”
“Becca,” I said, smiling. “Just his house guest.”
The moment the words left my mouth, they traded a look, eyebrows shooting up. “House guest? He never has house guests.”
I raised my hands. “Apparently, I’m the first.”
One of them leaned closer. “So are you two—?”
“Nope,” I said before she could finish. “He caught me hitchhiking up the mountain. I’m just the homeless, jobless, boyfriend-less girl who got stranded in a snowstorm. Merry Christmas to me.”
They laughed. “Honey, you fit right in.”
Then someone said, “Wait—your Aunt Marge is Margie? The Margie?”
“Uh, I guess? If we’re talking about crossword-puzzle champion and pie-baker extraordinaire.”
A cheer went up. “Everyone knows Margie! She’s like the town’s aunt.”
Just like that, I had friends. The married women pulled me right in, swapping stories about Margie’s cookouts and her old patch days. The unmarried ones just looked like they’d bitten into a lemon. Whatever. I was too busy basking in the smell of hot chocolate and bread to care.
Downstairs, the muffled rumble of voices rose and fell. The men were in church. Up here, we had our own kind of meeting.
“So, uh,” I said, “Bear gave me permission to Christmas this place up.”
The room went silent. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“As in… lights? Tree? Tinsel?”
“Full-blown North Pole,” I said, trying to sound serious.
Their jaws dropped. “The Prez said yes?”
“After I beat him at pool.”
That earned me a round of applause and disbelieving laughs.
“Well, shoot,” Dee said. “Let’s make it count.”
I grinned. “I’ve got boxes full of Christmas stuff up at Bear’s cabin.”
“Jinx!” someone hollered. “You got the sled?”
Ten minutes later, he was hooking up two snowmobiles. Turns out, half the club had stashes of decorations tucked away in old garages and sheds. A few people disappeared, promising to bring back boxes of lights and ornaments.
By the time the men came up from their hour-long meeting, the place was a glittering, chaotic wonderland—tinsel in the rafters, garlands hanging off the pool table, and a tree made from stacked beer crates wrapped in string lights.
Someone handed me the aux cord. “You’re the boss, Christmas girl.”
I plugged in my phone, thumbed to my playlist, and hit play.
The first notes of All I Want for Christmas Is You filled the clubhouse.
A few of the guys groaned. The women whooped. And somewhere in the middle of it, I caught Bear standing in the doorway, watching the madness with an expression halfway between disbelief and a smile he didn’t want me to see.
When Mariah hit the chorus, I just shrugged and mouthed the words at him, grinning:
You lost the bet, Grinch.
He shook his head, but I swear I saw it—that tiny flicker of warmth that said maybe, just maybe, Bear Boone’s mountain heart wasn’t frozen solid after all.
The lights were glowing warm gold off the beer-crate tree, and Mariah was still promising she didn’t want a lot for Christmas.
I spotted Bear standing in the doorway, half in the shadows, arms folded. The look on his face wasn’t grumpy exactly—more like he couldn’t decide if he’d lost control of his clubhouse or his mind.
I walked straight up to him.
“Don’t look so sad,” I said. “We both won.”
One brow lifted. “That right?”
“I’m staying.”
I said it lightly, like it was nothing, though my pulse was doing its own drum solo.
“I was invited, and well… the roads might be open, but they’re icy. And the band’s coming back later, so—”
He leaned in a little, the low rumble of his voice brushing my ear. “Is that so?”
“Apparently,” I said, trying not to sound breathless.
His mouth curved, slow. “More brothers will be up here tonight. Another club’s traveling through.” His tone softened. “You’ll be under my protection.”
Something in the way he said it—quiet, absolute—sent a shiver right through me.
He hesitated, eyes steady on mine. “Can’t promise you’ll be safe from me, though.”
For a second, neither of us breathed. The firelight flickered over his shoulders, painting him in gold and shadow.
I smiled, because pretending not to be affected was the only defense I had.
“Safe got me nowhere, Bear.”
He started to speak, but I lifted a hand—laid my palm flat against his chest. The fabric of his Henley was warm, the heartbeat underneath it steady and strong. “Maybe it’s time I mixed up my game.”
And before he could answer, I reached behind me, snagged a sprig of mistletoe from the garland someone had strung across the bar, and held it right over his head.
“House rules,” I said.
His eyes narrowed in mock warning, but the edge of his mouth betrayed him.
“Sugar,” he murmured, “you play a dangerous game.”
“Maybe,” I said, tilting my head. “But so far, I’m winning.”
He stared down at me, that quiet half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You won’t do it,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Not here. Not with all these people watching.”
I grinned. “Watch me.”
Before he could react, I dragged a chair over, stepped onto it, and suddenly I was eye-level with him—or a little above. The room had gone still; laughter and music faded into a low hum of curiosity.
I leaned forward, cupped his beard in both hands, and said in my most ridiculous sing-song voice,
“Oh, my little Grinchy. My cute, cuddly, Care-Bear little Grinchy.”
The whole bar burst into laughter.
His eyes went wide for half a second, and then narrowed in that way that said, you started this, sugar.
He muttered something under his breath, set his beer on the nearest table, and in one smooth move caught me around the waist. The chair creaked as he pulled me down off it and straight against him.
The noise of the crowd blurred. The garland, the lights, the fire—all of it disappeared.
He looked at me once, his gaze burning, raw, and unyielding, like he’d been holding back for too long. Then he kissed me.
It was fire—hot, hungry, and all-consuming.
His lips crashed into mine, urgent and demanding, like he was staking a claim he’d been denying himself for years.
One hand tightened at my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us, while the other slid up to cradle the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.
The kiss deepened, a desperate edge to it, all heat and need, like we were stealing every second we could from the world around us.
My hands gripped his shoulders, anchoring me as the room spun, the taste of him—whiskey and want—igniting something reckless in me.
Someone whooped. A few clapped. Mariah hit the chorus right on cue.
When he finally pulled back, I was breathless and half-laughing. “Guess you did believe in Christmas spirit after all.”
He shook his head, still holding me close. “Guess you make it hard not to.”
The room roared back to life around us—music, cheers, someone hollering for another round—but for a heartbeat, it felt like the whole mountain had gone quiet except for us.
The applause faded into the clatter of pool balls and the buzz of conversation, like the room was pretending nothing had just happened.
Fine. I could pretend, too.
I slid off the chair, heart still trying to remember its normal rhythm, and headed for the bar. My hands were shaking just enough to make twisting the cap off a cold beer harder than it should’ve been.
A few people clapped me on the back, someone whistled, someone else yelled “About time!” I laughed it off, waved them away, trying to act casual, but my lips were still tingling.
He tasted like mint and sin.
Like trouble I’d been pretending I didn’t want but couldn’t stop thinking about now that I’d had a sample.
I took a long drink, the cold cutting through the heat still crawling up my neck, and stared at the garland-wrapped lights flickering over the bar. How had I gotten here?
A day ago, I was sliding down an icy road, thinking I’d freeze to death.
Now I was kissing a grumpy, gorgeous biker under mistletoe while Mariah Carey sang backup.
I needed to get a grip. Fast.
Because if I wasn’t careful, this wasn’t going to end with cookies and carols.
It’d end the way it always did for me—me patching up another broken heart while everyone else unwrapped their gifts.
I forced a smile, lifted my beer in a silent toast to myself.
“Merry freakin’ Christmas, Becca,” I muttered under my breath.