Sandy
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” she said gently, tilting her head, trying to keep her voice soft instead of intrusive. “But you should know, I get it. Starting over. Trying to outrun something—that’s hard to do.”
That made him look at her, really look at her, for the first time since she’d sat down across from him. His gaze was steady, but guarded, like a man trying to decide whether to open a door or keep it bolted. “Yeah?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, running her finger over the rim of her coffee mug.
Talking about her mom still felt like pressing on a bruise that hadn’t fully healed, but she forced the words out anyway.
“My mom died a year ago,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
“She raised me alone. I never knew my dad—she always made up stories about him. Said I was brought down to her by an angel, and I used to believe her.” She chuckled at the memory of her mother saying that to her.
Nick didn’t interrupt. He didn’t glance away like most people did when conversations turned uncomfortable. He just watched her and listened.
“Just like that?” he asked. His voice was low, but there was no judgment in it.
She gave a small laugh. “Yeah, just like that. I packed up my life and drove until the ache didn’t feel like it was going to swallow me whole anymore.
I ended up here, and I’m still not sure if it was brave or stupid.
At first, I was living off the money that my mother left me, but then I decided that I needed to earn my own way in the world.
So, I found the job at the newspaper and started working as an editor. ”
His hand tightened around his glass, and she saw something flicker in his eyes—recognition, and maybe even understanding. “An editor who sometimes works as a reporter,” he corrected.
“Yes, and sometimes, I work as a reporter. I usually don’t like having to do interviews or write stories, but there was something about your story that made me want to.
Maybe it had more to do with the article being about Christmas,” she admitted.
“Christmas used to mean something,” she said softly.
“Now it’s just so complicated. At least for everyone else in the world.
People like us—who have no one left in our families to spend Christmas with, well, it’s a bit less complicated.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The low hum of the diner filled the space between them—an old country song playing through dusty speakers, the clink of silverware, and the murmur of private conversations.
“How about you come to the holiday party with me at Road Reapers?” he asked.
Sandy didn’t breathe. She didn’t want to scare the moment away.
“Then neither of us will have to spend Christmas feeling so alone.”
Her chest ached. Not from pity—she knew better than to give him that—but from the quiet, raw way he asked her to the Christmas party that even he didn’t want to go to. She recognized that kind of ache. It was the kind that didn’t fade. It just changed shape over time.
His breath hitched when she nodded her agreement. She was sure that he didn’t mean for her to hear it, but she had. It was a tiny fracture in the wall he seemed to keep around himself, and she was thankful that he was letting her see behind it. “I’d like that,” she admitted.
“Okay,” he breathed, not seeming to know what to say next. “I’ll text you the information. Would you be able to meet me at the club? I don’t think that the kids would understand if Santa showed up with some woman who wasn’t Mrs. Claus.”
“Just text me the details, and I’ll be there,” she promised.
Sandy chanced a look outside, noticing how the Christmas lights twinkled in the cold night.
A few hours ago, she might not have even noticed them, but now, they seemed extra bright against the night sky.
When the check came, Nick paid before she could argue.
He just slid his card onto the tray with quiet finality.
Sandy followed him out of the diner, the bell above the door chiming as the cold air wrapped around them.
The night smelled like snow—clean, crisp, and sharp against her cheeks.
A few people hurried down the sidewalk with bags and scarves wrapped around their flushed faces, laughing like the world was lighter this time of year.
Sandy shoved her hands into her coat pockets, still feeling the ghost of his hand against hers from earlier.
Nick walked beside her, not saying anything.
But the silence wasn’t awkward. It was almost comfortable.
A strange, new kind of quiet she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.
“I didn’t scare you off with all that, did I?” she asked finally, forcing a little laugh as she glanced at him.
His mouth curved into a sexy smirk. “Takes more than a Christmas story to scare me.”
She laughed softly, her breath turning to fog in the air. “Good to know.” They stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. The streetlights cast a soft amber glow over the snow-dusted pavement, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Nick shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and tilted his head toward her. “You’ve got a way of getting under people’s skin, you know that?”
Sandy lifted a brow. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Maybe both,” he said, and this time, there was a faint spark of something in his voice. Something she hadn’t heard from him before.
She didn’t push for more. Not tonight. It wasn’t about getting a story anymore. It was about the tiny shift she’d seen in his eyes when the lights outside didn’t look quite so much like the enemy.
“I can give you a ride back to the Road Reapers,” he offered. The thought of getting back on his bike after the temperature had dropped made her shiver.
“Thank you, but when you were paying the bill, I requested an Uber. She nodded at the Toyota Camry that had just pulled into the lot. “That’s him,” she said.
“So, you don’t want to take another spin on the old death machine?” he teased.
“Not in this cold air,” she said, wrapping her arms around her body. “Thank you for dinner,” she breathed. Sandy started for the Uber, and just before she got into the car, she turned back to find Nick watching her. “Goodnight, Nick,” she said softly.
“Night, Sandy,” he breathed.
As she turned and slid into the car, she couldn’t stop the small, unexpected smile that tugged at her lips. For the first time since she’d left home, the cold didn’t feel so heavy—and neither did the loneliness.
Later that night, she sat by her fireplace, trying to keep the cold that had seemed to settle into the night at bay.
She was in her Christmas pajamas that her mother had given her their last Christmas together and was wrapped in her favorite quilt.
Sandy wasn’t sure if she was ever going to get used to the winters in her new hometown, but she was sure she was going to give it a try.
Sandy had rewritten the opening paragraph of her story three times already, and it still sounded wrong.
No matter how she phrased it, she couldn’t capture what she’d seen in Nick’s eyes that night at Maggie’s Diner.
It was something between loneliness and defiance, a man who’d forgotten how to hope but couldn’t quite give up on it either.
She leaned back on her couch, her laptop balanced on her knees, and sighed. The glow from the Christmas tree she’d put up in her tiny house had cast soft golden light across the living room. It made the space feel less empty, though she’d never admit that to anyone.
Her editor’s voice echoed in her head. “Make it personal, Sandy. The readers want a reason to care about this guy being Santa.” Yeah, she thought wryly, personal was exactly what she was trying to avoid with Nick.
She’d come to this little town to escape emotions, not dive headfirst into them—especially not over a brooding biker who looked like he’d rather punch a snowman than build one.
The knock at her door startled her. It was past ten, and she wasn’t expecting anyone.
She hesitated for a moment, her heart thudding in her chest. Then she peeked out the front window—and nearly stopped breathing.
Nick stood on her porch, the porch light catching the snowflakes in his dark hair.
He had one hand stuffed into his jacket pocket and the other holding a paper bag.
Sandy stood from the sofa, tossing the quilt down before crossing the small living room to open the door, the December air biting her skin. “Nick? What are you doing here?”
He gave a small shrug. “You left your scarf at the diner. Maggie found it and called me, and since I was in the area, I picked it up and figured I’d drop it off to you.
” Her red scarf dangled from his fingers, but the small takeout bag in his other hand wasn’t from the diner, and it piqued her curiosity.
“And the bag?” she asked.
He looked almost sheepish. “Figured you didn’t finish your dinner during our interview, so I picked up some pie from the bakery just down the road from my house. They had one left.”
“You brought me pie?” she said softly.
“Don’t make it sound like a damn Hallmark movie,” he muttered, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“Do you want to come in?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He hesitated, glancing past her at the warm glow of her living room, the tree, the blanket on the couch, the fire in the fireplace. He looked as though he wanted to tell her no, but after a long pause, he nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
Sandy took the bag and scarf from him, setting them on the coffee table. “I was just working on your story,” she admitted, instantly regretting it when his brow furrowed.
“My story?” he echoed.
“Well, the club’s Christmas story,” she corrected quickly. “But you’re kind of the main focus as the reluctant Santa.”
Nick groaned. “That’s exactly the kind of headline Mace is going to frame and hang in the fucking bar.”
“Relax,” she teased. “It’s not that bad.” She pulled up the draft and turned the laptop toward him. “‘Nick Carter, a forensic scientist by day and biker by night, is taking on the role of Santa Claus for the first time—’”
He cut her off with a laugh. “You make me sound like a damn superhero with a secret identity.”
“Hey, it’s a small town. They eat that stuff up,” she insisted. She noticed the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, how the tension in his shoulders eased a little. The walls he wore so easily were starting to crack—and that scared her more than she wanted to admit.
“So,” she said, desperate to change the subject, “you really never had Christmas as a kid?”
Nick leaned back against the couch, staring at the twinkling lights on her tree. “Not the kind you see in movies. Most years, I was in a new house with new faces around me. Sometimes there was a tree, sometimes not. You learn not to expect much when you move from foster home to foster home.”
Sandy’s chest tightened. “That sounds lonely.”
He shrugged. “You get used to it. Eventually, you stop caring.”
“Do you really believe that?” she asked. “That you stopped caring. If that were true, would you have agreed to play Santa, even if it were Mace asking the favor?
Nick turned his gaze on her then, and for a moment, the air between them felt heavy.
“No,” he said finally. “But it’s easier to pretend I do believe that.
” Pretending that I don’t care is easier than admitting to anyone that I do.
” She didn’t know what had over her. Maybe it was the warmth of the room, or the way he looked sitting there in her space, but she reached over and placed her hand on his.
“You don’t have to pretend here,” she whispered.
His hand turned, his fingers sliding between hers, rough and warm. “You should be careful saying things like that to me, Sandy.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I’m not the kind of guy you want to let in,” he said.
She smiled faintly. “Maybe I get to decide that for myself.”
Nick studied her for a long time, and then he exhaled, shaking his head at her. “You’re trouble.”
“So I’ve been told,” she breathed. For a split second, she thought for sure that he was going to lean in to kiss her, but he didn’t. They just sat on her sofa like that, hands entwined, looking into each other’s eyes as though waiting for the other to make some sort of move.
“How about I get us some dishes and forks for the pie?” she asked. He released her hand as she stood, and she instantly missed their connection. They ate pie together on the couch, talking about everything except Christmas. By the time Nick stood to leave, the clock on the wall read midnight.
She walked him to the door, and he paused, glancing at the tree again. “You know,” he said quietly, “it doesn’t look half bad. The lights, and the ornaments—all of it.”
Sandy smiled. “That’s kind of the point.”
He looked at her for a beat longer, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Goodnight, Sandy Cove.” When the door clicked shut behind him, she stood there, heart racing, fingers still tingling from his touch as she brushed them over her forehead.
Outside, the snow began to fall heavily, covering his footprints almost as soon as he made them. And for the first time since she’d moved to this town, Sandy felt like maybe she wasn’t alone anymore.