Page 39 of Jingle Belle's Biker

He opens his mouth, then casts me a filthy look, before slamming it shut once more.

“And explain this rent rise.” She pauses. “The illegal one.”

“It’s for repairs and maintenance. For Mr. Santiago here.” He offers her a tight smile. “I find it easier calling it a rent rise over breaking it all down. But I will.”

“It has to be in writing, Lance,” she says.

“You didn’t get the letters? I thought everyone was ignoring them. I’ll send another copy tomorrow. By courier.” Then he moves in, taking her arm and trying to lead her away, presumable so I’m not towering over him. “Dinner?”

I wince. In the scheme of fucking dumb moves, that’s up there.

“No. I’ll see you around, Lance.”

And with that, she stomps off inside, Nomad hot on her sensible heels.

Oh, fuck is she sweet.

Chapter Nine

Belle

“Come out later for a drink and tell Hannah all about the blond, evil man.” My friend drops her voice, even though we’re on the phone. “And the biker.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned him.” I throw chopped spinach into the pasta sauce for the vegetable lasagna I’ve decided to make.

Easy, enough for lunches and other meals. Considering Lance is being worse than the Grinch and Scrooge combined, I’ll need to watch my money.

“And,” she says when I don’t answer her about Saint, “how tall is this hot biker if you say he makes Lance look short? He’s got to be six foot.”

“Taller.”

“You’re a help.”

“I’m annoyed,” I say. “It’s Christmas at the end of the month, and Lance thinks it’s okay to call a rent hike fee?”

“Is that even legal?”

“No. But he can afford the best, and it’s got that iffy shades of gray in the least sexy way feel to it, Hannah. He’s wording it asrepairs and maintenance, and we both know he’ll make it so each apartment needs things done. That they asked, he listened, but it needs to be paid for, blah blah blah. Ugh, I can hear him now. Why was I going to marry him?”

She laughs. “Because you had a momentary lapse in reason. And reality. The man is hot, but he’s like a hot cardboard cutout of a superhero.”

“He’s got more personality than a cardboard cutout,” I say as I stir the sauce. The bechamel is done and waiting, and I feel the need to defend myself and my stupidity.

She snorts. “Maybe you think he’ll have a Christmas epiphany?”

“Only if it’s to make more money.”

“If you’re not going to come out for drinks, I’ll order in.” Hannah rings off.

From his chair I put in the kitchen, Nomad tilts his head, looking at me like I’m hiding meat.”

“Cheese?”

Nomad chirrups and purrs, so I hand him some cheese.

When the sauce is done, I assemble the lasagna to put it in the oven. Then, I pour a glass of wine and lean against the counter. “You know, Nomad, he’s dishy, isn’t he?”

Dishy? Oh, lord, I’m losing my mind.

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