Page 72 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“You like him, he likes you. Whatever.” Sin flops on the sofa. She looks back at me. “Sit. Explain to me the deal with his building.”

“Nothing to explain. My ex’s grandmother owned it when she passed. Well, it’s his, but not technically. Yet. And he wants people out, but it’s rent-controlled. And no one’s going to move. Where are they going to go? Farther out? Or one of the bad parts of town?” I shrug. “It’s the same in lots of places.”

“Those rich fat cats . . .” She swigs her drink. “Assholes.”

“Lance is spoiled and has the Hastings name. He’s the head of Hastings, the head of the Hank’s chain, and . . .” She’s right. He’s a rich fat cat, and that’s not any disrespect to Nomad. “And he likes money.”

She studies me for a long time. “You don’t want to marry him or the other way?”

“I changed my mind.”

“Good for you.”

Sin’s about to say something when the door slams and boots thump to us. “What the fuck?”

I jump up, spilling the drink, face burning as Saint looks from me to her. “I’m sorry?—”

But he isn’t listening to me. “Don’t fucking cause trouble, Sin. And put some clothes on. She’s not interested.”

“I’m not causing trouble. Your little honey bear and I are talking.”

“I’m going,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Sin. Again.”

“Belle.”

Saint’s voice is soft and low, and I meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“This?” He doesn’t answer, his attention going to Sin, and I start for the door. “I’ll see you around, I need to go home.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and he’d definitely not listening. He’s fully focused on the hot Sin as she saunters into the bedroom, and I walk out on stiff legs.

I’m an idiot for thinking I’m more than sex or fun. For thinking . . . I don’t even know. Because I didn’t get a vibe they were having sex. I didn’t pick up tension, and that makes his lack of attention toward me worse.

I get myself some water, wishing I had hard liquor because now I spilled the whiskey all over myself, I could use a drink. But I left the tequila at his place, and I’m not even sure I have wine.

Besides, wine didn’t help last night. How on earth is alcohol going to help now?

I almost jump when someone knocks at my door.

It would be my luck that Lance came back.

With a sigh, I get up and open it.

It’s Saint.

Chapter Sixteen

Saint

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Those words aren’t enough to erase the hurt I saw when she was at my place. The hurt I ignored because I needed to have words with Sin. If I let myself think about it, I wouldn’t have been fucking nice to Sin.

I got the feeling, standing there, blood hot in my veins, stomach ice, that she might not deserve wrath.

Belle’s gaze is on me, and it’s fucking compelling.

---