Chapter 13 #2
“You’re not a salad-for-dinner kind of woman,” he said softly.
I looked up at him, startled.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk.
Just looked at me like he knew.
Like he’d been paying attention.
And in that quiet room, with snow falling and candles flickering and a man across from me who dressed up and slowed down just for me—I felt something deeper than lust bloom in my chest.
Something terrifying.
I saw the flicker of a frown cross his face the moment I said “salad.” It was subtle — barely there — but I felt it. The shift. The tension that edged into his jaw like I’d just unknowingly failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
So I backtracked, fast.
“Or…” I offered, forcing a laugh, “I could start with a small cup of soup. The butternut squash sounds nice.”
He didn’t say anything right away.
I kept going. “It’s just, Margie’s been prepping for weeks. She made this huge lasagna casserole for lunch. You know, one of those deep-dish ones with, like, six layers of cheese? I couldn’t say no. I’m still kind of full.”
That did it.
Bear nodded, just once. The tension eased from his shoulders, and his lips curved — not into a full smile, but that little near-smirk he gave when something settled right in his gut.
And inside, I exhaled.
Phew.
We were going to be okay.
But even as I looked over the rest of the menu like maybe I’d order something else, my brain was spiraling.
This place is expensive.
We're going to have to split the bill.
He’s not rich. He’s not even close.
I’d seen how Bear lived. The cabin was modest. No frills. The essentials and not much more. No flashy gear. No unnecessary gadgets. Just warmth, wood, and that worn-in kind of comfort that comes from years of doing everything yourself.
I couldn’t imagine that being the president of an MC came with a salary. Whatever he had, he probably scraped together. And now he was using it on this?
On me?
The thought made my chest pinch.
I didn’t need this level of show. I didn’t need to be impressed. Hell, I didn’t want him to think he had to put on some polished version of himself just to keep me interested.
Truthfully?
I was already his.
He didn’t know it yet — probably hadn’t let himself believe it — but it was true.
I’d fallen somewhere between the firelight and the snowstorm, in the quiet way he held back when I threw myself at him, in the steady hand on my lower back, the low voice that whispered my name like it meant something.
This dinner? This fancy inn? The view, the candles, the new boots, the trimmed beard?
It was sweet. It was overwhelming. It was unnecessary.
He didn’t have to dress up or spend money to win me over.
He’d already done it.
I watched him across the table as he read the menu with that same quiet focus he gave everything else — the painting, the walk, me.
I shouldn’t have said anything about Huntley earlier. I winced just thinking about it.
I mean, who brings up their rich ex-boyfriend on a first date with a man who clearly earned everything with his own hands? What a stupid, throwaway comment. But I could still hear myself back in the car—Huntley thought it was gauche.
What a mistake.
Now Bear probably thinks he has to compete with that — with penthouses and overpriced restaurants and perfectly pressed shirts.
But Huntley doesn’t hold a candle to Bear.
Not in grit. Not in heart. Not in anything that actually matters.
Bear is steady. Grounded. A man who listens, who notices, who holds the door and means it. Who protects without being possessive. Whose hands may be rough, but whose soul is soft in all the right places.
I’ll never date someone like Huntley again.
Not because he was rich.
But because he had no substance.
If Bear only has fifty bucks to his name, I’d still take him over a thousand Huntleys.
Because Bear?
He’s gold.
That rare kind of gold — the kind you don’t polish or put in a vault. The kind you carry close. The kind you keep.
Dinner had settled into something soft and easy. The wine helped. So did the way Bear listened — not just with his ears, but his whole damn body. He sat across from me like there wasn’t a single place he’d rather be, and I couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.
He asked about my life in Charlotte — not the casual, “so what do you do?” small talk — but real questions. Honest ones. The kind that made you stop and think.
And so I told him the truth.
“I don’t know,” I said, stirring the last of my wine with the stem of my glass. “I feel like I’m just... patching myself together. Flitting from here to there, bouncing between jobs and cities and people who never stuck. I don’t feel grounded. I don’t feel like I’ve found my place.”
He didn’t rush in to fix it. Just watched me, those deep eyes steady.
“Truthfully,” I added, “I’m a little jealous of what you have. That mountain. Your MC. Your routine. You know who you are. What you want. You’re content. You’ve built something. And I’m still trying to figure out where I even belong.”
I looked down at the table. “Aunt Margie invited me to stay a while. Said there’s plenty of room at the condo.”
He studied me for a long beat, then asked, low and deliberate, “You planning on staying past the holidays?”
I bit my lip. “I’m thinking about it. My mother might come with her boyfriend, Ray. My sister, Emma is up skiing in New England. A quiet Christmas just might be what I need.”
His hand reached across the table and caught mine — fingers warm, thumb moving lazy circles on my wrist that sent a ripple straight down my spine.
“I can’t think of a single reason why you should stay,” he said, voice low, rough.
My eyes flicked up.
Then he added, “Becca, I know we just met. And I’m not really the kind of guy that dates. I’m the kind of guy who just... takes.”
My breath caught.
“But you?” His thumb pressed into the center of my palm. “You’re different. This is different. I feel it. Don’t you?”
I shifted under the table, my knees brushing his. I felt it. It was practically pulsing.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Maybe it’s just the holidays?”
“Absolutely not,” he said — fast, sharp.
“Oh,” I said, blinking.
He ran a hand over his face. “Sorry. I just— I’m really not a Christmas guy.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s kind of the irony here.”
And then it shifted again — back to light, to warm. We talked. We laughed. Sipped coffee. Told stories about stupid teenage decisions, bad haircuts, weird jobs. It felt... natural. Like we'd known each other for years, not days.
Then the bill came.
I reached for it at the same time he did, but Bear was faster. Slipped his credit card in before I could even open my mouth.
“Bear,” I said, frowning. “I know you don’t have much. That’s not an insult — I don’t either. But you don’t need to do all this to impress me.”
He didn’t look up.
“I mean it,” I went on. “You impress me already. The way you treat people. How you open the door for me. The way you look at me like I matter. That’s more than most men have ever given me.”
That made him pause. Really pause. His eyes met mine, and there was something in them I couldn’t quite name — like he was weighing whether or not to tell me something real.
Then he stood, signed the bill.
“Wait a minute,” I said, squinting. “You don’t really sign the check as ‘Bear,’ do you?”
He gave a slight smirk but said nothing.
I lunged forward, playful. “Let me see that credit card. I want to know your real name. Your full name.”
He pulled it back smoothly, tucking it into his wallet. “Nope.”
“Why not? What are you, a secret felon or something?”
He leveled a look at me. “No. I am who I am. You know that.”
But still — he wouldn’t let me see it. And it stuck in my mind. Just a little.
Margie was out at her book club-slash-game night, which meant it was just the two of us in her place — fire on, lights dimmed, the hum of something quiet playing on Netflix just to fill the silence.
I poured him another glass of wine and curled up next to him on the couch, trying to play it cool, but every nerve in my body was on high alert.
He sat with one arm draped along the back of the couch, glass in hand, legs stretched out like he had all the time in the world. Watching me.
Not talking.
Just watching.
Like he knew exactly what I was doing and was letting me do it anyway.
I leaned into him, close, pretending to be very interested in whatever was on the screen. His fingers found the ends of my hair, twisting them gently. Then they dipped — just barely — under the neckline of my blouse.
They didn’t go far.
Didn’t need to.
Just danced over bare skin, slow and patient and maddening.
I shifted. Tried not to squirm. My breath caught as his fingertips made another slow pass, light as a whisper, heating everything inside me.
He knew.
He definitely knew.
And I had no idea how much longer I could pretend I was still watching the movie.
It was wrecking me in the best way possible.
His hands were creeping up my back, tentative at first, like he was testing the waters.
My heart thudded against my ribs, a wild rhythm I couldn’t control.
That laugh—his ridiculous, sweet Christmas confession—still danced in the air, but it melted away as his touch grew bolder.
I shifted, straddling his lap, my hips spreading over him, and suddenly it was no longer a quiet moment.
It was a full-on make-out session, raw and electric.
His fingers tangled in my hair, gripping the back of my head, pulling me into him.
Our mouths fused in a wet, carnal kiss—tongues clashing, tasting, devouring.
I pressed myself harder against the zipper of his jeans, feeling him harden beneath me, a delicious friction that sent heat pooling low in my belly.
A moan slipped out, muffled against his lips, and then—rip.
His hands tore at my blouse, buttons scattering across the room like tiny explosions, the fabric falling away in tatters.