Page 8 of Saint Nick
He hesitated, glancing past her at the warm glow of her living room, the tree, the blanket on the couch, the fire in the fireplace. He looked as though he wanted to tell her no, but after a long pause, he nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
Sandy took the bag and scarf from him, setting them on the coffee table. “I was just working on your story,” she admitted, instantly regretting it when his brow furrowed.
“My story?” he echoed.
“Well, the club’s Christmas story,” she corrected quickly. “But you’re kind of the main focus as the reluctant Santa.”
Nick groaned. “That’s exactly the kind of headline Mace is going to frame and hang in the fucking bar.”
“Relax,” she teased. “It’s not that bad.” She pulled up the draft and turned the laptop toward him. “‘Nick Carter, a forensic scientist by day and biker by night, is taking on the role of Santa Claus for the first time?—’”
He cut her off with a laugh. “You make me sound like a damn superhero with a secret identity.”
“Hey, it’s a small town. They eat that stuff up,” she insisted. She noticed the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, how the tension in his shoulders eased a little. The walls he wore so easily were starting to crack—and that scared her more than she wanted to admit.
“So,” she said, desperate to change the subject, “you really never had Christmas as a kid?”
Nick leaned back against the couch, staring at the twinkling lights on her tree. “Not the kind you see in movies. Most years, I was in a new house with new faces around me. Sometimes there was a tree, sometimes not. You learn not to expect much when you move from foster home to foster home.”
Sandy’s chest tightened. “That sounds lonely.”
He shrugged. “You get used to it. Eventually, you stop caring.”
“Do you really believe that?” she asked. “That you stopped caring. If that were true, would you have agreed to play Santa, even if it were Mace asking the favor?
Nick turned his gaze on her then, and for a moment, the air between them felt heavy. “No,” he said finally. “But it’s easier to pretend I do believe that.” Pretending that I don’t care is easier than admitting to anyone that I do.” She didn’t know what had over her. Maybe it was the warmth of the room, or the way he looked sitting there in her space, but she reached over and placed her hand on his.
“You don’t have to pretend here,” she whispered.
His hand turned, his fingers sliding between hers, rough and warm. “You should be careful saying things like that to me, Sandy.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I’m not the kind of guy you want to let in,” he said.
She smiled faintly. “Maybe I get to decide that for myself.”
Nick studied her for a long time, and then he exhaled, shaking his head at her. “You’re trouble.”
“So I’ve been told,” she breathed. For a split second, she thought for sure that he was going to lean in to kiss her, but hedidn’t. They just sat on her sofa like that, hands entwined, looking into each other’s eyes as though waiting for the other to make some sort of move.
“How about I get us some dishes and forks for the pie?” she asked. He released her hand as she stood, and she instantly missed their connection. They ate pie together on the couch, talking about everything except Christmas. By the time Nick stood to leave, the clock on the wall read midnight.
She walked him to the door, and he paused, glancing at the tree again. “You know,” he said quietly, “it doesn’t look half bad. The lights, and the ornaments—all of it.”
Sandy smiled. “That’s kind of the point.”
He looked at her for a beat longer, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Goodnight, Sandy Cove.” When the door clicked shut behind him, she stood there, heart racing, fingers still tingling from his touch as she brushed them over her forehead.
Outside, the snow began to fall heavily, covering his footprints almost as soon as he made them. And for the first time since she’d moved to this town, Sandy felt like maybe she wasn’t alone anymore.
NICK
He’d faced down crime scenes, rival clubs, and more than one pissed-off ex, but nothing—nothing—prepared him for the chaos of thirty kids running around a bar that was decked out like Santa’s workshop.
Nick tugged at the red velvet collar that was digging into his neck and muttered a string of curses under his breath. Brooke, Mace’s wife, had gone all out. Tinsel hung from the rafters, fake snow dusted the pool tables, and one of the prospects had even dressed up as an elf—with bells. Real ones. Every step jingled like an insult. Nick felt lucky that Mace had only asked him to be Santa because there was no fucking way that he’d suffer the humiliation of wearing bells.
“Cheer up, Santa,” Mace said, clapping him on the back. “You look great.” He wanted to tell his Prez to fuck off, but that usually didn’t end well for him.
