Chapter 8
BEAR
The place was still humming, the lights soft, the smell of pine and spilled beer thick in the air. Everyone else seemed busy laughing, talking, eating. I wasn’t seeing any of it.
All I saw was her.
Becca was at the bar, laughing with one of the old ladies, hair falling over her shoulder, face lit up by the Christmas lights she’d strung herself. I should’ve hated every bit of this—holiday music, fake snow, glitter everywhere—but I didn’t. Couldn’t. Not when she was in the middle of it.
She’d done the impossible. She’d made the clubhouse feel alive again.
She’d made me forget.
Forget the calendar. Forget that this was the time of year when every quiet hour up here reminded me of what I’d lost. The ghosts. The silence.
Now there was laughter instead of emptiness, her voice instead of the wind.
Didn’t even care about the decorations anymore. All I could see was the woman who’d put them there.
All I could taste was the memory of her kiss.
I told myself it didn’t have to mean anything. That maybe this Christmas didn’t have to be miserable.
A little company. A little warmth. That’s all it had to be.
She’d go back to her city life when the snow melted. I’d stay here where I belonged.
No expectations. No promises. No goodbyes that lasted too long.
Win-win.
I repeated it in my head like a prayer, a list of excuses that made it sound simple. She was helping me forget; I could help her do the same. Two lonely people keeping each other from freezing until the new year rolled in.
That’s all.
Except when I looked at her again—really looked—the air went out of my lungs.
Because it didn’t feel simple anymore.
She caught me watching, gave me that small, knowing smile, and raised her glass in my direction.
And right then I knew I was already gone.
Maybe this Christmas wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Maybe a man could let himself want something, just for once.
Just for the season.
By nightfall the place was packed again—engines outside, boots stomping, laughter rolling up through the floorboards. I moved through it all on autopilot. A handshake here, a deal there, a quiet word with a chapter head who’d come up from Georgia. Perfect host, perfect prez.
From the outside, I probably looked steady. Inside, my head was a mess.
I’d made sure Jinx and the boys understood the rules before the crowd showed.
Becca’s off limits.
My woman.
The words had come out before I’d thought about them. I could almost hear her voice in my head giving me hell for it. We’d shared one kiss under a plastic sprig of mistletoe, and here I was calling her mine.
Yeah. Real smooth, Boone.
Still, the word had done its job. Every man in the place gave her a wide berth. Didn’t stop them from looking, though. Hard not to—she lit the room up.
She was laughing with the girls at the bar, hair falling in loose curls, red cheeks from the heat and the schnapps she’d somehow convinced McDaniel to pour into jello cups. She’d invented some kind of sugar-cookie cocktail that was strong enough to take paint off the walls. And she was glowing.
I should’ve stayed on the sidelines, kept doing my rounds, but when the band kicked up, something in me gave. One song, I told myself. Just to make sure she didn’t fall off the table she was dancing on.
I crossed the floor, slipped behind her, and when she turned, surprise flickering across her face, I just laughed and wrapped my arms around her waist. She didn’t pull away.
We moved with the beat, nothing fancy—just swaying, easy.
The noise around us blurred until it was just her laughter, the smell of cinnamon schnapps, the warmth of her back against me.
Later, when the air inside got too thick, we stepped out into the cold. The night sky was clear, the moon sharp. A few of the younger guys had started a bonfire, sparks snapping up into the dark. Arctic Cats idled nearby, engines purring like wolves waiting to run.
“Still got energy?” I asked.
She grinned, eyes bright. “You offering a rematch?”
“Something like that.”
We climbed onto the sleds, engines growling to life, the headlights cutting through the trees. The others fell in behind us. The forest turned into a blur of snow and light, machines weaving and circling, figure eights around the fire until the whole mountain hummed with sound.
Up here, there aren’t any streets to race.
We run the woods instead.
And tonight, for the first time in a long while, it felt good to just run.
The engines wound down one by one until only mine was left running.
I eased us off the trail, deeper into the trees where the snow lay untouched, smooth as glass. The lights from the clubhouse were long gone; only the stars were left—bright, cold, and sharp enough to cut the sky into a million pieces.
I killed the engine. The silence that followed was so deep it rang in my ears.
Becca pulled off her helmet, her breath turning to mist in the dark.
“Wow,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
The word didn’t begin to cover it.
Snow glowed faint blue under the moonlight, the air crisp and clear. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and the ride or the drinks she’d had. Her eyes bright as the stars themselves.
“Worth the trip?” I asked.
She turned toward me, smiling. “Definitely…. oops,” she giggled, clutching at me before almost falling in the snow. Buzzed Becca was cute. Adorable.
I don’t know what happened next—whether it was the quiet, the cold, or the way her voice softened—but something inside me slipped. All the reasons I’d told myself to keep my distance faded with the sound of the wind in the trees.
I reached out, brushed a snowflake from her hair. She looked up, and for a long moment we just stood there, breathing the same cold air, caught somewhere between sense and something else entirely.
Then she rose onto her toes, fingers curling in my jacket, and kissed me.
The world narrowed to the warmth of her mouth and the slow thud of my heartbeat. The taste of her was winter itself—peppermint, woodsmoke, and something fragile that made me want to hold on tighter. Like the taste of all the things that could break you if you weren’t careful.
When she finally pulled back, her voice was barely a whisper. “You see what I mean? Diamonds.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t looking at the stars anymore.
For the first time in years, Christmas didn’t feel like something to survive.
It felt like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left worth wanting.
Becca stumbled a little getting off the sled, laughing like it didn’t matter if she fell or floated. Her helmet clunked to the ground. I caught her elbow, steadied her, and felt the heat of her skin through layers of fabric and gloves.
“Okay, okay,” she said, wagging a finger at me like I’d done something outrageous. “You’re so bossy, Bear.”
She slapped my arm — not hard, just enough to make a point. Then she started humming under her breath. Something familiar. Jingle Bells, maybe. Or Silent Night. It was too off-key to tell.
Her cheeks were red from the cold and the alchohol eyes glassy and dancing under the stars.
“We should go back,” she said. “Clubhouse has hot chocolate. People. Dancing.”
“The clubhouse has noise and a bunch of drunk idiots trying to pretend they’re not freezing,” I said, guiding her toward the cabin instead. “You need a shower. Water. Maybe an aspirin. Time to go home…”
She sighed dramatically, let her head fall against my shoulder like she was giving in. “Look at you. All caretaker-y.”
“Someone has to be,” I muttered.
She didn’t hear me. Or maybe she just didn’t care. She was humming again — this time definitely Let It Snow — swaying slightly with each step, like her body was still riding the engine’s rhythm.
Inside the cabin, the heat hit us like a wall. She peeled off her gloves and unzipped her jacket with a slow, clumsy grace, like every movement was a tiny victory. Her hair stuck to the static of her fleece. I forced myself to look away, to busy myself with the kettle and a clean towel.
“You good?” I asked without turning around.
She didn’t answer right away. When I glanced back, she was watching me — soft smile, flushed face, like she was seeing something in me I wasn’t ready to have seen.
“You always take care of me,” she said quietly.
I swallowed, throat dry. “Someone has to.”
She stepped forward and poked my chest. “There it is again. Bossy.”
“You’re drunk, Becca.”
She grinned. “Buzzed.”
“Border line drunk,” I corrected.
“Only a little,” she said, and leaned in like she was telling me a secret. “But I feel good.”
And God help me, she looked it. Glowing. Happy. Beautiful in a way that hurt.
She brushed past me toward the bathroom, singing again. Off-key. Carefree. My heart knocked hard against my ribs as the door clicked shut behind her.
The ache in my chest settled in, dull and heavy. I poured a glass of water and left it on the nightstand next to the aspirin, trying not to think about what it would feel like to crawl in beside her. To hold her, just for a night.
She was humming again, even through the door.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, elbows on my knees, and tried to remember all the reasons I wasn’t allowed to want this. Then I crossed the hall to my own room to start building a fire.
The door creaked open behind me.
“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. Wanted me.”
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.
“I’m cooked,” I hissed as her skin touched mine.
“You’re so warm, Bear,” she murmured, wrapping herself around me like I was a space heater and a safety blanket rolled into one.
I tried to pull back. Gently. Respectfully. Like that was even possible with her half on top of me.
"Becca…" I warned.
She just sighed and snuggled closer, her thigh slipping between mine, her arm dragging across my chest. Her breath was hot against my neck, her skin silk and heat and trouble.
“Becca,” I said again, tighter this time. “You’re still drunk.”
"Shh," she whispered, not even hearing me. She giggled, rubbing her legs against mine, trying to make herself even smaller, even closer. Like she wanted to melt into me. “Mmm… your chest hair’s tickling me.”
And then she laughed — drunk, sleepy, happy.
I bit back a moan. My body didn’t care how noble I was trying to be. Every nerve was on fire. My cock was already stirring, pressing uncomfortably against my boxers. Of course.
I closed my eyes. Took a breath.
There’s only so much a man can take.
I wrapped my arms around her — not to pull her closer, but to keep her still. Safe. Settled.
“Go to sleep,” I murmured against her hair. “Please.”
She was already there. Breathing soft. Dead weight. Completely out.
I stared up at the ceiling, a woman I wanted more than anything pressed against me in her underwear, and tried not to die.