Page 62 of Jingle Belle's Biker

He takes over the cleaning of the cat prints and child trails of paint. “Besides, I had the evening off after someone did a Cinderella and rudely failed to leave the perquisite shoe.”

“I broke my glass slipper.”

“You’re meant to have two of them.”

“What are you?” I ask, “The fairy tale police.”

“Bite your tongue. I’d never be the police.”

I don’t even know what that means, but my heart does. It beats out bad boy and then swoons. “Thanks for coming.”

His lips press together like he’s trying not to laugh. Before I can say a word, I’m distracted by Pepper, who’s got a wiggling Nomad.

I don’t think he’s squirming over her, but because of all the small hands attacking him with love.

His furry face says help me, but there’s not much I can do. Besides, she’s not holding him tight. He could escape if he wants.

The rest of the evening passes in a fun-filled blur, with Saint giving piggyback rides and all the art done.

The children drag themselves out when their parents pick them up, and slowly Hannah, Saint, and I clean up the room.

Nomad curls up on the art and purrs.

“A biker with a cat,” Hannah says, grinning. “Any more of you out there?”

“I know a guy in town who has a pet lizard.”

“Is he single, and is he hot?”

“He’s single, and hotness depends on your wants,” he says to her. Then he looks at me. “Wanna get out of here? I’d offer to take us all out to eat, but not many places allow vermin.”

Nomad’s head pops up, and he growls.

“The cat’s cute. I’ll leave you both to it,” Hannah says. “Nice to meet you, Saint.”

When she’s gone, I’m totally flustered. It’s just us. “I have to stay to lock up. The art teacher would do it if she were still here?—”

“Take your time,” he says, walking up and leaning on the table where Nomad snoozes. “I’m not in a hurry. Unless you’re trying to get out of spending time with me. In that case, Red, you’re outta luck, at least until we get home. Because I’m not letting you fucking walk, and your ride ran like her feet were on fire.”

“She’s into you.”

Those words launch themselves from my mouth on their own.

“She’s attractive, but not my type.”

I stare at him. We both know she’s totally his type. She’d look at home on the back of a bike, I look like a tourist.

“My type’s started to lean to pretty, buttoned-up teachers, not edgy librarians. You.” He looks at me. “Just in case you’re not getting it. I mean you. You’re my type.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, okay, a month ago, I wouldn’t have said so, but from that moment I pulled up to rescue a teacher, you’re my type. Don’t worry, I’m leaving soon. You can cope.”

I try and suck in air.

Saint slides a hand around my waist and pulls me up against him, leaning down into me. His lips feather against mine.

I slip my arms up around his neck and tip my head for more. He obliges.

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