Page 68 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“I mean, you need to listen and not jump to conclusions that make no fucking sense.”

Now, I don’t make sense.

“Belle?”

Something soft hits the other side of the door, and a thrill rushes me.

But the locks don’t turn.

“Saint?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m tired, a little drunk, and I just . . . you’ve seen me in my . . . I can’t open the door again. I’m in pjs, and there’s a hot woman in your bed.”

“You know I’m not fucking her, right?”

“No.” She pauses. “I would if I were you.”

“Belle . . .”

She groans. “I’m mad. Maybe it’s irrational, and maybe it isn’t, but I have school, and I need to sober up, and she’s in your bed. Goodnight.”

She stomps away.

I stare at the door.

What the fuck?

But there’s nothing I can do, so I turn and go back to my apartment and go to bed.

Alone.

Chapter Fifteen

Belle

Nomad doesn’t speak to me the next morning. He takes off the moment he can.

I don’t blame him. I’d take off too.

My cheeks burn, and I put my cold fingers to them as I get in my car after school.

Last night, I was a little drunk. I didn’t mean to be, but no dinner and the shock of the hot, beautiful biker Saint clearly has a history with tipped those sails. Along with it, my sense of reason.

As I drive home, the guilt still eats me up. Guilt at treating him like . . . I don’t know, a cheating husband? If Saint wants to sleep with her, he can. We never set anything up, never exchanged promise rings or nude selfies or whatever kids do today to show they’re exclusive.

I think it was him waking me after hearing she was staying with him that turned me around and into something I’m not. Or never have been.

That and the duckie pajamas.

By the time I get home, I know I have to apologize for my less-than-stellar behavior. It’s warmer today, especially inside. But it’s a nice temperature, not too hot or cold. It’s a baby bear of heat, just right.

Wait. Does that make me Goldilocks? I hope not. She was obnoxious.

I make a cup of coffee, missing Nomad winding around my feet. He’s not my cat, which makes me sound like Saint, but the cat’s his and only deigns to spend time with me.

As I sip my drink, I putter around, marking work, tidying, and organizing laundry, until I finally stop.

---