Page 84 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“I gave your cat some milk, didn’t I?”

Nomad, who followed me up here without me noticing, yawns, licks his chops, jumps up on an armchair, and curls up.

“Kick him out, Mrs. Kovacs.”

“He’s so sweet. I’d never do that.”

Nomad opens an eye and looks at me.

“You can have him,” I say.

Nomad growls.

“For this afternoon. Just let him out when you’re tired of him or he wants to go. He can get back in.” I leave a window cracked for him, but the cat’s a nomad, so he likes to do what he wants, go where he wants to go.

Which will make me leaving when Christmas comes easier. Nomad’s now got lots of homes to go to.

I finish the coffee, and wash my mug and hers, and I take note of all the things that need repairing in here.

“Not your problem,” I mutter.

Still, she’s old. It can’t hurt to return later in the week to fix some things for her.

As I leave, I note a few other things in the hall of the building that need work. When I reach downstairs, I almost run into Belle.

“I was going to come to the school and see if you needed a lift.” I pull her to me and drop a kiss on her cold lips. “Winter’s basically here.”

“I have a car.”

“Jesus, woman, it’s called being chivalrous.”

She laughs at me. “Careful, your reputation’ll slip.”

Her throat calls to me, and I’m a weak fucking man, so I nuzzle it, licking against her skin as I nudge down her scarf a little. “What reputation? It’s why I’m a nomad.”

“You and that cat claim that?—”

“No, I named him that.”

She just makes a small sound of agreement, one that lands on the side of disbelief.

I ease her back. “Aren’t you meant to still be at the school?”

Belle’s eyes sparkle as she twirls away from me. “They’re lighting the Christmas tree outside the library. They usually do it earlier and not so close to the holiday, but . . .”

Fucking Lance.

He’s got influence.

Tthe second the fucker pops into my head, something cold sinks in me. I haven’t heard from him, which is odd.

Then again, there’s lots to do when you’re planning on being evil.

“When are you going?”

“An hour.” Some of the spark fades and she goes to the stairs leading up, her hand on the worn banister. “I’m hoping it’ll make up for some threadbare Christmases this year.”

“I’m sure it will.” I pull out my phone and check the time. “Hey, wanna ride there?”

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