Chapter 12
BEAR
Iwas at the bar in the clubhouse, laptop open, one hand nursing a mug of black coffee, the other scrolling through Google like it held the meaning of life.
“Holiday date ideas. Pigeon Forge. Romantic. Unique. Not ice skating. Not sleigh rides. Not cliché.”
Jinx walked by, saw the screen, stopped in his tracks, and whistled low.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Boss is Googling date ideas.”
I didn’t even look up. “Keep walking.”
Jinx leaned in, grinning. “This for Blondie?”
“No.”
His grin got wider. “Ohhh. This for your snowbird.”
I looked at him sideways. “You done?”
“Just getting started.” He spun on his heel and shouted across the room. “Yo! Axe! Pico! Diesel! Come get a load of this — Bear’s planning a date.”
Footsteps. Laughter. Chairs scraped. And suddenly I was surrounded like a wolf in a trap.
“Movies, man,” Axel said, dropping into the chair next to me. “Can’t go wrong with a Marvel flick and some popcorn.”
“Burger bar,” Pico offered, dead serious. “Fries, root beer float. Chicks eat that up.”
“She’s not a chick,” I muttered. “Or seventeen. I need something more grown up.”
“Aw, listen to him,” Grease said. “Gone soft.”
I finally closed the laptop and looked around the circle of idiots I called brothers. “Have you seen Becca? She’s a city girl. Class. Sophistication. Lip gloss that probably costs more than your bike, Diesel.”
“I knew it,” Jinx said, snapping his fingers like he’d just solved a crime. “Wine by Design.”
“Wine by what?”
“Wine by Design,” he repeated. “It’s down in Pigeon Forge. You sip some fancy-ass wine, you paint some flowers or whatever, and pretend you’re cultured. Women love that shit.”
“Paint?” I said, deadpan.
“Brushes, little canvas, glass of merlot. Boom. Chick crack.”
Axel nodded solemnly. “Jinx took his cousin there. Said it bought him two weeks of no attitude.”
I groaned and reopened the laptop.
Wine by Design, Pigeon Forge
Click.
There it was. Bougie fonts. Photos of smiling couples holding up terrible paintings of sunsets and wine glasses.
“Fuck,” I muttered. “What have I gotten myself into?”
Pico clapped me on the shoulder. “Into something real, bro.”
Grease added, “Don’t screw it up.”
Jinx grinned. “Don’t wear flannel. And for the love of all things holy, don’t mansplain brush strokes.”
I closed the laptop again. This time with purpose.
“Tonight. Six p.m.” I muttered to myself.
And then, louder: “Now all I gotta do is not make an ass of myself with acrylics and cabernet.”
I stared at the confirmation screen like it might back out if I didn’t blink.
Wine by Design. Today, 6:30 PM. Two guests. Confirmed.
I pulled out my wallet, punched in the card info, and hit “Book.”
Done.
And that’s when it hit me.
I had nothing to wear. Like, nothing. My entire wardrobe was jeans, flannel, and three MC hoodies that smelled like campfire and sawdust.
“Shit,” I muttered.
Jinx was already two steps ahead of me. “Yeah, no way you’re showing up to a painting date in your serial-killer boots and woodcutter chic.”
“I don’t—”
He snatched my keys off the table. “Already got my truck running. Let’s go.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What for?”
“We’re gonna Pretty Woman the shit out of our prez.”
“What the—Jinx.”
“Don’t fight it,” Axel said, popping up out of nowhere like an overexcited stylist. “Let it happen.”
Next thing I knew, I was crammed in the back of Jinx’s truck with Pico at the wheel, Grease in shotgun, and Jinx blasting a ‘90s playlist like we were on a bachelorette party run.
Downtown Pigeon Forge never saw it coming.
They dragged me through two different outdoor gear shops, tossing clothes at me like they were dressing a damn mannequin.
“No camo,” Jinx said, thumbing through jackets. “Shit, we’re not sending you to war.”
“Try this,” Pico said, throwing me a soft charcoal North Face zip fleece. “It’s like flannel’s sexy cousin.”
“I am sexy,” I growled.
“You’re grizzled,” Grease corrected. “There’s a difference.”
They made me try on jeans that actually fit — slim cut, dark wash. I felt like I was in a Gap commercial for lumberjacks. The cashier looked at me like I might body-slam a mannequin at any moment.
And just when I thought we were done, Jinx clapped his hands like he was unveiling the finale.
“Salon.”
“No.”
“Beard trim. Oil. Warm towel. Relaxing music.”
“No.”
“It’s already booked. You’re welcome.”
Forty-five minutes later, I was in a reclining chair with a hot towel on my face, my jaw cracking every time I gritted my teeth, which was often.
“You’re fuming,” the stylist said with a smile.
“I’m fine,” I growled.
“You’re cracking your molars.”
I closed my eyes, sighed, and muttered, “This better work.”
She chuckled. “Oh, it’s working. You’re gonna look like the kind of man who wins the girl in the movie.”
Fuck me, I hoped so.
Because if Becca was the prize?
I’d let these idiots style me into a damn Christmas tree.
I was reclined in a chair I was pretty sure cost more than my first bike, a hot towel smothering my face while some kind of calming instrumental music played low in the background — which, if you ask me, just made the whole thing feel more like a trap.
“You ever moisturize?” a smooth voice asked near my right ear.
I peeled the towel back just enough to get a look at him.
Slim build, bleach-blond buzzcut, perfect eyebrows, glossy nails, and a smirk like he already knew how the rest of my day was gonna go.
The name tag said Zane.
“You talkin’ to me?” I asked.
Zane’s grin widened. “You see any other bearded lumberjack types having a midlife grooming crisis in here?”
I just stared at him. He raised an eyebrow, unfazed.
“I noticed your hands,” he said, taking one of mine like I’d just offered it in a damn wedding proposal. “These things have seen work.”
I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t say anything either.
“You ever had a manicure?” he asked, already inspecting my nails like they were a crime scene.
“Do I look like I’ve had a manicure?” I growled.
Zane winked. “You look like you arm-wrestled a bear to get your morning coffee.”
He turned my hand over, tsked, and reached for a warm ceramic bowl of soaking water. “Come on. Dip ‘em in. It'll be fun.”
“I ain’t here for fun,” I muttered, but I dropped my hands in anyway.
Zane beamed. “Mmm. The tough ones are always my favorite.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Look, man. I’m not gay. Just so we’re clear.”
He smiled, not missing a beat. “Sweetheart, neither is she. And I’m guessing she’s the reason you’re in my chair, letting me touch these gnarly mitts without punching me.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I leaned back, let the towel drop again. “I’m doing this for a woman.”
Zane patted my shoulder, all mock-serious. “Aren’t we all.”
For the next twenty minutes, he trimmed, filed, massaged, and clipped my nails while humming something jazzy under his breath. I tried not to squirm. At one point he hit a pressure point in my palm that made my eyebrow twitch.
“Easy, tiger,” he said, laughing. “Don’t finish before the first date.”
“The fuck,” I muttered.
“Relax. You’re gonna break hearts with these hands. Or at least one.”
When it was all done, he held them up like they were museum pieces. “There. Masculine, clean, and moisturized. A miracle.”
I stared at my hands, which — okay, fine — looked kinda impressive. Smelled good, too. Like oranges and cedarwood.
“This better work,” I muttered.
Zane grinned. “Oh honey… it already is.”
I stood, beard trimmed, face slicked with something that smelled like pine and money, hands moisturized and clean enough to hold a crystal wine glass without feeling like I was gonna snap it in half.
I looked like a man who had his shit together.
I felt like a man being dressed up to meet royalty.
All for one damn woman.
Zane handed me a little card with their salon hours and some kind of product recommendation I was never gonna read. Samantha just smiled, like she still couldn’t believe I let it happen.
I pulled out my wallet.
No hesitation.
Five crisp hundreds. Set them down on the counter.
“Merry Christmas,” I said.
Samantha blinked. Zane’s mouth actually fell open. Like, full gape. They both stared at me like I’d just dropped gold bars instead of cash.
“Y’all didn’t think a guy in grease-stained flannel and busted boots knew how to tip, huh?”
They didn’t answer — still stunned.
I gave them both a wink as I headed for the door. “Never judge a book by its cover.”
Zane found his voice as I reached for the handle. “Let us know how the date goes! Come back anytime!”
I grunted. Just once. Deep and low.
Then shut the door behind me with the kind of finality that said I wasn’t coming back unless I had a damn good reason.