Page 14 of Jingle Belle's Biker

He’s in a black shirt and a leather jacket. Black jeans and motorcycle boots.

In the light, I’m struck by just how good-looking he is. Beard or no beard—and I’ve never been a beard girl—he’s hot.

His shaved head gleams, and there’s a light in his hazel eyes that sparks something inside me that fizzes.

My mouth goes dry.

“Saint?”

“Yup, Red. Sure am. And I’m your newest neighbor.”

Chapter Four

Saint

Pretty Miss Red doesn’t run screaming, I’ll give her that.

She doesn’t point at me and accuse me of being a stalker, which in all fucking fairness, it could look like.

Hell no, she blushes. From under the Peter Pan collar of her top with the buttoned black sweater, the blush rushes up her throat to the roots of her hair. It curls soft and sweet around her face.

She’s even prettier than I remember, not because I can see her slender legs in the black tights. It’s not that she’s just wearing tights, or leggings, or whatever those things are women like to wear. She’s got a black-and-white-check skirt on too. The inside of her coat is burnished gold in color, so it shows her off perfectly.

But no, none of that’s why she’s prettier than I remember. She just is.

Her face, her demeanor, the smile that lights her from the inside out. I get the feeling Miss Rosso is a nice person.

Shit, she’d probably coo over that evil spawn of a cat that stole my dinner last night, so I had to make do with chips, chocolate, and nuts from the vending machine at the motel.

“You took me up on the spot for rent here,” she says, sounding pleased.

“Yeah?” I go to my bike and unstrap the bag I have attached to the sissy bar. “Fancy yourself a wheeler and dealer?”

“Absolutely. Just as soon as I find an area that’s totally me,” she says.

“Real estate.” I open the door and usher her in. “You could go into real estate.”

“I’ll become a mogul. Rent out crumbling apartments one by one. Make a whole five dollars on commission.”

“You’re selling yourself short,” I say, heading to the apartment that Lance Hastings outfitted with a cheap as fuck bed, TV, and sofa.

Fine by me. I don’t need much more than that. Give me a fridge with food, maybe beer, though I’m more partial to Jamaican rum, and a place to lay my head and I’m good.

“You could make a whole eight dollars, maybe nine.”

She laughs and it’s only then I realize she’s following me. I stop and turn, and she almost runs into me before rearing back, horror all over her face.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I’m not . . . I thought?—”

“You want to come in for a beer?” I ask smoothly, putting her out of her misery. Although it was fucking cute. “Seeing as you’re following.”

“We were talking. Also, for the record, I’m not some busybody,” she says, just like a nosy fucking nagging bitch would. I want to smile. “This is the super’s apartment.”

I open the door and gesture to her to come on in, dumping my bag in the hall.

She’s all big eyes and little kid energy. The kind of little kid who’s been taught to be polite but is busting at the seams with curiosity that’s infectious. Belle doesn’t go opening doors or poking into places she shouldn’t. Not that I have anything she shouldn’t poke into.

Her innocent gaze is something that soothes my senses. It relaxes me and I adjust my librarian take to something else. Maybe daycare or nursing. No, she doesn’t dress like one, and it’s twice now she’s home around the same time, in clothes that tell me Belle was at an office or something professional, not of the lifesaving variety.

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