Page 18 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Belle

Saint answers after my third knock.

He’s not wearing a shirt, and there’s water clinging to his beard and running down over the tattoos adorning his chest. I can’t even begin to describe them other than they’re tattoos. All that expanse of golden man flesh and the defined muscles are in the way.

They steal my breath and words.

Baffle my brain.

He’s staring at me, frowning. I swallow hard. Of course, he is. I’m staring at a half-naked tattooed man like he’s my last meal ever, and I’m starving. It’s like I didn’t just see him yesterday. “Come in. It’s cold.”

“We’re heading into winter.”

“Not there yet.” Saint saunters off. His long legs and tight ass are so fine my legs wobble.

I drag my gaze from him and look around for his cat for something to do. To stop myself from leaping on him to get my head back into the regular world where I don’t develop a sudden lust for a temporary biker.

“Where’s your cat?”

“Not my cat.” Since it’s the same room layout as mine, he disappears into the bedroom, and I press my cold fingertips against my burning cheeks.

I’m not going to stand here thinking about me sleeping right above him. Even if we’re separated by a floor.

Instead, I push the door shut and walk in, standing in at the cusp of the entrance hall and living room.

He’s added a lamp in the ways of decor.

When he comes out of the bedroom, he gives me a curious look, and he smooths down the front of a Ramones long-sleeved black T-shirt. “If the cat comes back, he’s yours.”

“Cats don’t work that way. They choose their people, and you have a cat.”

He glances about like he expects it to Cheshire Cat out of the air. “I hope not. I don’t have room in my life for an animal.” Then, his gaze lands on me again. “You knocked?”

“I wanted to thank you for fixing my car.”

“Who said it was me?”

“Who else would it be?”

“The car fairy?”

“No, she only comes out on full moons.”

“Isn’t that werewolves?”

I smile. “And car fairies.”

He laughs easily as he rubs a hand over his beard. “Never met a broken motor or old bike I didn’t want to fix. And you’re welcome.”

“It means so much. Makes my life so much easier. So, if you let me know what I owe you—” I open my bag, digging through it for my wallet.

But he stops me, his hand coming down on mine. Sparks of awareness flare and cascade through my blood, bones, and the soft and hidden parts deep inside. “I don’t want your money. Ifyou hired me to fix the car, maybe that’d be different, but you didn’t, so it’s not.”

Somehow, I get the feeling if I had asked and we’d agreed on a price, he’d find a way to not take it.

Maybe if he was hurting for cash, and this place screams someone who is, I’m not sure he is. This is a smart, resilient man. I know nothing about motorcycles, but I know they’re not cheap, and his . . . it looks loved, lived in, and something that might make other grown men drool.

I also don’t think he lets himself hurt for money. He’s a man who can turn all situations to his advantage. Like a cat might.

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