Page 87 of Jingle Belle's Biker

Fucking Nomad’s lucky he’s not here. Although, knowing that cat, he’d probably like it. Little weirdo.

But I’m sure he’s still upstairs with Mrs. Kovacs, being lazy.

Her hands are still wrapped around my waist, and I squeeze them before she slides off the bike. I take the helmet and lean in as I get off.

“Have you been baking?”

“You weren’t gone long enough.” Then she goes pink. “I might have whipped up a batch of cookies. They’re cooling on my counter.”

“Pencil me in for some of those.”

“There you go, ruining your reputation again.”

I sling an arm around her and kiss her upturned face. “Fucking badass bikers like cookies. It’s a fact.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Where are all the decorations the kids did?”

She weaves us through the crowd, and I get her a candy cane on sale. She looks fucking cute as she eats it, offering me a bite of the sweet, peppermint goodness. I turn that down, opting instead for a slow kiss.

“Oh boy.” She gives me a wobbly smile, pressing in close. “And in public?”

“I’m not ashamed of you, Belle.”

Her blush deepens and her smile grows. “I’m working on getting over the shame of you. Isn’t your head cold?”

I laugh. “Nope. And the jokes on you, I want you ashamed. I want to be your dirty filthy secret.”

I say this right against her ear, the shiver that runs through her has nothing to do with the cold.

She’s not ashamed, it’s been clear since day one. I don’t think she does that, anyway. Belle’s not a woman to put people in boxes.

Kids rush up to us, screaming questions about the stupid cat, and she says hello to about half the city.

With her, here, this is more like a town than a small city. Because that’s Belle all over, sweet, giving, interested. She showsme the names on the trees, the wishes the kids put down. And, at the present donation box, she opens her bag and drops in a few colorfully wrapped gifts.

Her friend Hannah comes up. “You’ve already donated a lot, Belle.”

“It’s going to be a hard Christmas.”

Then she shows me the library with its decorations the kids worked on.

It’s dark and the only thing missing is snow. I pull her to a stop and point up. “Mistletoe.”

I don’t give her a chance to respond. Her mouth is sweet, pepperminty, warm and wet and her tongue eager. It’s one of those kisses that isn’t a prelude to sex. But it’s so fucking hot it should be. It holds promises, emotions not spoken about, and it’s one of the realest things in my life.

The kiss is pure. Her heart’s in the mix, and so is mine.

At this moment, I’m in love with her.

In this moment.

Breaking the kiss she looks at me. I don’t hear anything but our uneven breaths, the beats of our hearts. Her eyes are soft and warm. Then a scream of laughter pierces the air and the moment’s done.

She looks up. “That’s a twig, Saint.”

“Go with it.”

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