Page 29 of Jingle Belle's Biker

There’s no real reason to be standing so close to Saint, letting the heated sizzle of awareness of his hand on my hip soothe places deep within. But I stay.

For a moment.

Then, with a swallowed sigh, I take a seat. I try and pretend it’s disappointment that touched his features.

“I’m pretty sure I was promised food.”

He grins. “That’s Gravel for you. Hook you with a promise you can’t resist, and then, bam, he’s off to play pool.”

“We got food, honey,” the bartender says, leaning her elbows on the bar. Her gaze is friendly, and it sweeps the bar, but everyone right now is content, and it’s a little early for the after-work crowd.

Though, this is, I think, a biker bar, or at least, a biker-friendly bar, and I’m a little hazy about what they do on a day-to-day basis for work.

“Burger?” Saint asks as I take a small sip of the wine. “Or is that gonna kill you?”

“Not unless you put arsenic in it.”

“Dang.” He snaps his fingers as the bartender slides a laminated menu over to us. “Left it at home.”

“Maybe you should stick to the mechanic business,” I say, hazarding a guess at his career. “Murder isn’t your thing.”

He leans in, mouth close to my ear. “Maybe I like to take it slow.”

“Are you trying to scare me or flirt?” I ask. “Because I teach second grade, and they can be scarier than you.”

“And if I’m flirting?”

A thrill races through me. And my heart spins. “Are you?”

“Gravel mentioned you might know someone for the open position?” the bartender says, interrupting whatever he might have said.

Saint leans back, and as the beat of the music slides in to the beat of my heart, I’m overcome by the desire to touch him. To run my fingers over his chest, and explore the tattoos that show along his arms now that he’s taken off his jacket.

A vine and snake wind up around one arm, or is it a dragon? And the other is almost pagan, a certain kind of holy no church would ever allow and . . .

“Belle?”

Heat flares through me. I think he’s said my name a few times if the knowing smile on the pretty bartender’s face is anything to go by. She tops up my wine, even though I didn’t ask, and I drag my gaze to Saint.

“Yes?”

He holds out a hand and counts on his fingers. “Did you want something to eat? And Havana here wanted to know about your neighbor’s credentials. Like could she work somewhere like this? And three, do I need to break that fuck’s face for putting hands on her.”

“I’ll have a burger, please, and fries.” I look at the menu. “Cheeseburger, thank you.”

“Two.” He nods at Havana. “Thanks. Now . . .” Saint turns to me, and my insides flutter. “Your neighbor?”

“Um . . . doing what?” I lower my voice.

He leans in. “Pole dancing.”

Shock hits me, followed by a rush of warmth. “I know you’re joking.”

“Do you?”

I nod. “She can’t ride a motorcycle.”

“Which is the number fucking one priority in a pole dancer.” But he grins. “You got me.”

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