Page 89 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“No.”

This isn’t the place to talk, I know that. Right now, I don’t want to be pressed against him, feeling the blood beat through his veins, feel his heat and strength and the familiarity I’ve come to know, to love.

I veer from that word and turn, walking off, skirting the crowd. He doesn’t come after me, and I can’t shake the bitter-edged disappointment that makes no sense as it swoops in, leaving me hollow.

There are a lot of people now, and we’d moved off into a quieter corner, at the edge of the library. Behind me is Saint and . . . I scan the crowd.

The last thing I want is to go through there and put on a happy face.

There’s pain, I can feel that, but on top is the shock, anger, and an overwhelming need to do something.

Also, I’m going to have to get the bus.

I skirt the edges, taking the long way toward where my bus stop is. Behind me comes the roar of a motorcycle.

It stops. “Hey there, Pretty Belle.”

That’s not Saint.

Gravel’s on his bike, holding out a helmet. “Wanna ride?”

I get off his bike and hand him the helmet. Nomad is sitting on the steps, tail swishing, but otherwise, very still, like he’s picking up a vibe.

“Thanks.”

Gravel’s face is set, like he wants to say a whole lot, but he doesn’t.

“There’s a fucking saying, my girl, about books and contents and don’t judge and I’m a thinking that might apply to Saint.”

“Who?”

He looks at me and nods slowly, then reaches out to adjust the collar of my coat. “Fair play. But . . . ah, fuck, the ass’ll kill me, but I’ve known him since he was this high.”

Gravel waves a hand around his knee.

“So, you know he’s a liar?”

“Now, that ain’t you, kid.” He presses his lips together and blows out a breath. “He might not have as much finesse as me, but he’s a good one. Not a troublemaker.”

“He’s been working to get rid of people from here. Working for my greedy ex.”

He nods but doesn’t look surprised. “He named that damn cat. Stuck around. And I don’t think it was for the ex, y’know.”

“Sin seems nice, I?—”

“Yours. I meant yours.” Then he sighs like he’s said too much. “Don’t be a stranger, Belle, okay?”

I smile, digging it up from somewhere, and wave goodbye as he zooms off. Then I turn and trudge in, Nomad meowing and following.

Upstairs, I throw myself into baking.

Just cookies that, when cool, I box up for friends and those who might like a sweet thought. Because if I don’t do something, I might take my cast iron frying pan and hit one big, tall, bearded biker with a whole load of tattoos over the head with it.

Of course, he’d have to bend down for me.

Nomad just idly watches me bake. There’s no food in it for him and he wasn’t overly interested in dinner, so I suspect he was fed.

I’m just sliding the final tray into the oven when someone knocks on the door, and my heart goes crazy.

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