Chapter 13
BECCA
What do you wear on a date with a lumberjack MC Prez?
That was the question I kept asking myself while I paced my room, surrounded by two piles of clothes and exactly one glass of wine I hadn’t touched.
Bear wasn’t some suit-and-tie guy. He was boots, flannel, beards, and silent stares that said more than most men’s love letters. He was solid and rough and real. I didn’t want to show up in heels and look like I was trying to gentrify the damn mountains.
So I went the other way.
I’d gone to L.L. Bean earlier that day and picked out a black and green Christmasy plaid blouse—feminine, but still woodsy—and tied it at the waist for shape.
Rolled the sleeves up to my elbows. Threw on a black faux fur vest over it and paired the whole thing with chunky faux-fur boots and big gold hoop earrings, because if I was going rustic, I was still gonna do it with a little flash.
Kind of like a classy biker chick who’d crashed a Hallmark movie.
I checked my reflection twice. Hair curled. Makeup light, but on point. I looked like I wasn’t trying too hard… even though I absolutely was.
My stomach flipped when I heard the knock.
Margie was already halfway to the door before I got to the hallway. “Becca, I think your mountain man’s arrived,” she teased.
“I swear if you say ‘he can come chop my firewood’—”
But then the door opened.
And I stopped breathing.
Bear stood there looking like the entire LL Bean winter catalog had manifested into a sex dream. Brand new dark jeans. A fitted black Henley under a slate-gray North Face fleece that hugged his broad chest and made him look even bigger somehow. New boots—polished, still stiff—and his beard?
Trimmed. Clean. Full and glossy in a way that said someone had definitely touched it with expensive oil.
And the scent that hit me?
Warm spice and cedar. Like Christmas and sex and safety, all bottled up in one giant man with soulful eyes and the softest smirk.
I put a hand over my mouth without thinking. “Shit.”
He blinked. Took a second to look me over—slowly, from my boots to my earrings. And then he laughed.
A deep, low, real laugh that I felt in my chest.
“You tried to dress down, didn’t you?” he said.
“And you tried to dress up,” I shot back, grinning.
We both just stood there for a second, smiling like idiots. Two people trying to meet in the middle, and somehow crashing straight into each other’s hearts instead.
Margie made a little sound behind me—one of those wistful, romantic sighs that only an aunt can make and still get away with.
Bear turned to her, leaning in and kissing her cheek. “These are for you,” he said, and handed her a bouquet of daisies—bright, simple, perfect.
Margie touched a hand to her chest. “Well, now. I don’t know what’s in the water up at that mountain cabin, but I like it.”
Bear glanced at me. “You ready?”
I nodded, heart in my throat. “Yeah. More than ready.”
And I swear as I stepped out into the cold night with him at my side, it felt like something was about to start—not just the date.
Something real.
When he led me out to the driveway, I stopped cold.
A black Cadillac Escalade. Tinted windows. Gleaming like it had just been detailed by angels. I could see my reflection in the paint. The seats inside looked like they cost more than my old apartment.
I let out a low whistle. “This yours?”
He opened the door with a grunt. “Borrowed it from a friend.”
I slid into the passenger seat, still stunned by the smell of clean leather and whatever luxury air freshener this thing came with.
“Well, damn,” I said. “You’re really trying to impress me tonight.”
He didn’t say a word. Just gave me a look — that quiet, confident Bear look that somehow said more than an entire love letter.
The drive was smooth, quiet. He had country music playing low — real stuff, not pop-country garbage. My hand kept drifting to the armrest, fingers itching to find his, but I kept it classy.
Until we pulled into a little swanky storefront that glowed with twinkle lights and wine bottle silhouettes in the windows.
I blinked at the sign.
Wine by Design.
“No,” I breathed. “You didn’t.”
He parked, turned off the engine, and looked over at me like it was no big thing.
“I’ve always wanted to do these,” I said, my voice rising with actual glee. “But Huntley—”
I stopped myself, flinching.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about exes.”
Bear shrugged, calm as ever. “He thought it was too...?”
“Gauche,” I said, making a little air-quote with one hand.
Bear rolled his eyes. “Don’t know shit about painting. But you can’t talk at the movies. And technically, we already had dinner. Twice.”
I laughed — really laughed — then reached over and touched his beard. It was so soft I could practically melt into it.
“You’re perfect,” I whispered, leaning across the console to press a kiss to his mouth — soft and slow and sweet.
He kissed me back — that slow burn kind of kiss that makes your ribs ache — and just when I felt his tongue almost start to move, I pulled back and smirked.
“Uh-uh. Save it for later, big guy. We’ve got some painting to do.”
He exhaled like I’d just taken away his favorite toy, but climbed out without a word.
Inside, Wine by Design was festive as hell — wreaths, gold ribbons, soft jazz playing, little tables lit by tiny string lights.
And every woman in the place went quiet when Bear walked in behind me.
He ducked under a garland like he was stepping into a gingerbread house, and I swear two women dropped their paintbrushes. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Someone actually gasped.
I slid my arm through his and gave the room a smile that said:
Back off. He’s with me.
We found our station — blank canvas, paints set up, aprons ready. They handed us wine. I took a sip, Bear just nodded when they asked if he wanted red or white.
He was watching the instructor like it was a damn TED talk.
“Okay,” I whispered, leaning close. “You ever touched a paintbrush in your life?”
He grunted. “Nope.”
“Then why are you suddenly locked in like this is the final round of a baking competition?”
He didn’t answer. Just dipped his brush into the blue and started filling in the dark sky.
We painted. We sipped. We made small talk with the couple next to us — well, I did. Bear answered in grunts and the occasional nod.
I kept sneaking glances at his painting, and every time I looked, it was... better.
Like, actually better than mine.
His snowman had shadowing. His moonlit sky had depth. The pine tree looked like it belonged in a gallery, not a class.
I was biting my lip now. Not because I was concentrating.
Because watching this mountain of a man hold a delicate paintbrush with such quiet focus was doing things to me.
“What?” he said, without looking up.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “It’s just... I didn’t know you were secretly Bob Ross.”
“Don’t know who that is,” he muttered.
Of course he didn’t.
Of course he was beating me.
And of course, now it was a competition.
I dipped my brush and got to work. Game on.
By the time we stepped out of Wine by Design, I was flushed from more than just the wine.
His hand found mine without even thinking — just curled around it like it belonged there. The parking lot was quiet, and the snow had started falling again, soft flakes drifting under the streetlights like powdered sugar shaken from the sky.
My heart was still thudding from the kiss earlier. My fingers itched to grab his collar and pull him in again. My entire body was already imagining what it would feel like to finally not hold back.
Bear didn’t rush. Didn’t pull me toward the truck.
He just started walking.
So I walked with him.
Down the sidewalk, past decorated storefronts and twinkling garlands, through the quiet of a small town that looked like it had been dressed by a Hallmark movie crew. My boots crunched over salt-dusted pavement. The cold nipped at my nose, but his hand in mine was steady and warm.
We didn’t say much.
Didn’t need to.
My mind was spinning. Wondering. Wanting.
I’m not a promiscuous woman. That’s never been my story. But Bear…
Bear felt like home.
Not the picture-perfect kind with matching throw pillows and chore charts, but the kind where someone sees you. Where the silence is safe. Where a hand on your back feels like it’s been there for years.
With Huntley, sex was clean. Controlled. Like following a checklist. Good enough, but never more. Never deep. Never messy.
Bear?
I could already feel what it would be like with him — heat and hands, breath and bone, calloused fingers dragging across bare skin and a mouth that didn’t ask permission to kiss like it meant something.
And if I didn’t go for it tonight, I might never feel something like this again.
I was already playing out the steps in my mind — how to close the gap, how to kiss him just right, what I’d say if he invited me back—
But instead, he led me up the wooden steps of a quiet country inn and inside.
Not to a room.
To a table.
Just one. A small table set for two, tucked into a little third-floor nook that overlooked the glowing lights of the main square. We had the whole floor to ourselves — just Bear, me, and the slow fall of snow beyond the window.
My stomach dropped a little.
He wasn’t thinking what I was thinking.
He was thinking more.
My heart twisted as I looked down at the menu and saw the prices. This place was expensive. Like “take-a-deep-breath-before-ordering” expensive.
He’d gone all out. For me.
I swallowed hard. “I think I’ll just do a salad,” I said, flipping the menu shut, keeping my voice breezy. “Maybe with some grilled chicken?”
Bear raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“I’m not that hungry,” I lied.
Truth was, the moment I saw the prices, I started calculating tip, taxes, whether I should offer to split, and how many resumes I’d sent out this week. Guilt bloomed like a bruise under my ribs. He didn’t need to do all this.
But he reached across the table, just touched my hand with his — warm, rough, steady.