Page 40 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“Hot. Sexy. Unexpected. He gets my weird humor. And between us, he likes you.”

Nomad’s stare says it all. The cat isn’t stupid. He knows Saint Santiago likes him.

“You know what? I need some more wine. Tonight’s going to be a two-glass night,” I say. “Also, I need some lettuce.”

Nomad stares.

“And cat tuna.”

He meows.

I grab my coat as I head to the hall, noting the temperature’s dropped. Sometimes, it’s unpredictable in Sweetwood, but I’m not looking forward to when winter kicks in. Because that’s when real car issues pop up.

“Come on, Nomad.” I hold the door open for him as I grab my purse and cloth shopping bag.

He refuses to move.

With a sigh, I close the door, telling myself I’ll have to coax him out and back to Saint Santiago when I return.

The car, to my shock, runs like a dream. Both to the supermarket and back.

Usually, the first real sign of wintry wonderland weather and it digs its wheels in, refusing to turn its motor over until I’ve cussed it out, good and proper.

All through my head, the entire time as I select premium cat tuna and other catty things, my brain tries on first names that might go with Santiago. It seems unfair that Lance knows it, and I don’t.

Not that it’s my business.

When I pull up, I gather my things and run inside, pausing on the ground floor.

I pause. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, but it’s an idea, and so I go to his door. Inside his apartment come the strains of The Antlers, a band I only know of because Hannah loves them.

Maudlin kinda soft music, not what I picture a big biker listening to.

I knock, and he takes a few minutes, but he answers.

The plan is to ask him to dinner as a thank you for making my car purr like . . . well . . . Nomad.

“What’s your first name, Mr. Santiago?”

He winces, and I note the book in one hand. It looks like a manual, and the pages are stained and creased.

“Just call me Saint, Red.”

“Call me Belle, Santiago.”

His mouth twitches, and I shift the bags higher on my shoulder. “Did you knock to sass me?”

“That’s just a perk. I was going to ask you to dinner. I’ve got your cat as hostage.”

“Bad choice in hostage fodder. You can keep him.”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think you get to keep cats, I think they keep you. And yours considers you kept.”

“I’m no one’s old man, least of all to a fucking cat.” He leans against his door frame. “Dinner?”

“For the car.”

“You already thanked me. “

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