Page 5 of Jingle Belle's Biker

He’s in a leather jacket, worn jeans, and he’s tall as hell.

And jacked.

Even in my fear-addled state, I can see he’s jacked.

My stomach flips as he comes up to me and flips the visor.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he says, “or I’ll break your legs.”

Chapter Two

Saint

I pause, and let my words sink the fuck in.

Then, I add, “That’s just for starters, so let the girl go. Now.”

The punks don’t need to be told twice.

Without a word, they let the girl with the wet ropes of red hair and something like spilled red juice—I know blood when I see it—on her white blouse go, and stumble back into their fucking lair.

Soon, it’s just me and her, and she looks like a half-drowned puppy or kitten. Cute, pathetic, and vulnerable. I lean against my bike, a custom build, and wait to make sure the baby thugs don’t reappear.

Sweetwood City is a way, way upstate New York city, one of those overgrown towns that spilled into industrial—this one logging—way back in the day and now chugs along.

I miss the wide-open roads of California, and I’ve been thinking once I hit the Big Apple itself, I would head back that way.

But for now, I’m here with a drowned damsel, and she’s eyeing me like maybe the thuglings are a better bet.

Then I frown, easing off the helmet.

No, she isn’t. The buttoned-down girl with the air of a librarian, not scared, she’s embarrassed. It’s in how her gaze graces the wet and broken pavement with the weeds poking through.

Her shoulders lift, and she looks at me, the kind that slams fucking hard because, yeah, she’s pretty, but the green eyes do it.

Green like emeralds in candlelight and curious. Then her generous mouth turns into a smile as she pushes back the curling mass of dark red hair. “Most knights ride a horse.”

“Like this?” I pat the saddle.

“Don’t you call it a hog?”

“She’s a chopper, and I call her Bessie, but that’s just me.” I look her up and down, and man is she soaked. Didn’t anyone tell her not to run around in a giant storm?

She holds out a slender hand. “Thank you, Mister . . .”

“Saint.”

“Mister Saint.”

“Just Saint.”

She blushes, even though her hand is wet ice as I take it in a firm shake. And there’s a buzz of awareness that runs along my nerve endings as I do so.

“Saint.” The blush turns darker, her fingers squeezing a moment before they loosen, and I let her go. “I’m Belle. Belle Rosso.”

“Belle the red-haired.”

She touches her hair and groans. “Even wet?—”

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