Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Belle

“Don’t float,” I say under my breath. “Do not float.”

“What are you on about?”

I glare at Hannah, while wearing my happy-nothing-to-see-here face, which is hard to do. “Like I told you in the car, nothing. Shouldn’t you be at the library?”

“I don’t work there today, and if I remember right,” she says, dipping a brush in paint and applying it to the paper, “in the car, I asked why you looked happy, and hello. Not in that order.”

“I said hello—no Thomas, don’t paint Sarah. Paint the paper.” I glance at her as Clark takes the glue and, with his tongue sticking out, attempts to stick cotton wool on his wobbly, fat, stick-legged Santa. “Later, Hannah.”

She shrugs and starts on a reindeer. This is something we do every year. She likes to come along and post art at the library and then hang the wishes on the tree there. The wishes aren’t meant to be toys or loot or whatever the kid wants, but things for others. Some of them want peace, others to stop climate change, and one girl wants to help build rockets to populate Mars.

“I know you did this last year, but . . . why don’t you take the helm, officially? Every year?” She doesn’t look up.

In the far corner, Niles, one of the fifth-grade teachers, is attempting to draw an elf, much to the laughter of the children around him.

“We split it up so everyone gets a turn. There are . . .” I look around. “Four other teachers. And you and the art teacher, Kat, are usually the mainstays. She likes it. I’m not kicking her out of the job. Besides, I don’t have that power.”

She looks up at me, wickedness dancing in her gaze. “You’ve got some power. I can see it. Whisker burn. And is that a hickey?”

“Shut up.” I fluff my hair. Clark watches avidly.

Somehow, the floatiness is still there, inside. Little flutters whisper against my stomach as the images her words evoke dance. Damn it.

“Nope.” Hannah rises, handing her brush to Clark. “So, what you were just muttering about is . . . tall? Tattooed? Bearded and hot? Stop me when I’m red hot like those special injections he’s giving you.”

“Are you twelve?”

“Maybe.” She sighs. “He’s so hot.”

Clark’s head bounces back and forth. Then focuses on Hannah. “Who’s hot? Has someone got a fever?”

“Miss Rosso,” Hannah says.

“I do not!”

He frowns. “Mommy said I’m not allowed to get sick.” Clark looks hopefully around for the ill person.

“No one’s sick. Miss Hannah is joking.” I nod to the far-right corner. “Go see what Mr. Bloom’s doing.”

He trots off to the fourth-grade teacher who’s wrestling with paper and safety scissors.

“Well?”

I glare at her. “You don’t even know what he looks like.”

“You told me.”

“I’m not sure I used the word hot,” I say.

“If you didn’t, it was implied. Besides, he’s hard to miss. He came into the library to put up a notice about either working as a mechanic or advertising his front for his crime ring.” She sighs. “That would be even hotter.”

“You need help.”

“From a hot man.”

My gut clenches, and something dark and sharp slides through me.

It takes me a moment to recognize what it is—every unfamiliar inch.

Jealousy.

Crap. I look at her. She’s hot, gorgeous, and the male teachers keep eyeing her, even Bloom, who’s married and wouldn’t cheat.

She’s got leather pants on and a flowing top she’s tied at one side. She’s one hundred percent the kind of female I picture with a man like Saint.

I look like a librarian more than she does.

“A biker will do. I had one, you know.” Her voice drops. “Very dirty. A filthy, filthy man in all the good ways. Oh, what he could to do me . . .”

“Go find him, then.”

“He’s got a wife now.”

“Old Lady.”

She grins. “Someone knows the lingo.”

“Everyone knows that one.”

I throw myself into creating art with the kids. It’s fun and comes with the bonus I can’t talk to Hannah about Saint.

Because my brain is a mess. I like him. Obviously, I do. I wouldn’t get naked with him if I didn’t. If I wasn’t majorly attracted to him. But I also don’t just sleep with men I’m majorly attracted to. There needs to be something else, a connection, feelings, that wild ride down into falling for them, at least to a point, and?—

Am I falling for him?

Because there’s a connection and I love spending time with him. Yes, we had more sex that night and morning, but I was sore because the man’s big, and even though I know he was holding back, I still took a pounding. So last night, even though we had hot sex against the wall of my apartment, he didn’t push for more and . . .

It was still good. The aftermath. The banter, the laughter, the mock arguments. All of it.

Shit. I think I’m falling for him.

A ripple goes through the art room, like a shockwave of different proportions. Every hair on my body seems to stand to attention, and my own wave of awareness zooms along my skin.

Saint.

He’s here.

I turn, and sure enough, he’s just walked in, helmet in one hand, cat pouring itself down to the ground from the other.

Hannah’s eyes light up.

I swallow the hard lump in my throat.

Saint’s gaze runs over her, and he smiles, but then he locks on to me, and electricity slams into me. It’s not until a high-pitched scream shatters his hold that I realize pandemonium’s broken free. Nomad races through paint, leaving cat prints everywhere as he leaps on Pepper, butts her head, and then takes off, leading the children in a chaotic chase.

“Your cat,” I hiss.

“Not my fu—not my cat.” He saunters up, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and smiles down. “We were riding by, figured you might want a lift home.”

Nomad’s running in a circle as paint and children go everywhere. One boy totters over from his spin as he tries to catch the cat, and the teachers just watch. One of them’s trying to get everyone to settle, but no one’s paying attention because it seems to be a game of catch the cat.

Every time a child thinks they have Nomad, he veers off and then runs in a counterclockwise circle.

An earsplitting whistle brings everyone to a standstill. “Back to art.” Hannah glares the rambunctious savages down. Only Nomad fails to look sheepish.

Then she comes up and runs a finger down the lapel of Saint’s leather jacket. She looks at me. “Hot.”

I go up in flames.

“You’ve made her blush,” Saint says. “That’s my job.”

“You must be Saint.”

“And you must be the librarian friend.”

“You two,” I snap, “can get a room.”

Hannah laughs and walks off.

I turn, flinging myself into cleaning up some of the paint, and I have to get down on my hands and knees.

My vision blurs because . . . because what was that? I’m not that. Never have been.

The flames lick my skin hotter.

I dunk the rag in the bucket of soapy water we keep for this kind of stuff and start to scrub.

A shadow comes over me, and a large, tattooed hand closes around mine. “Red.”

“Stop.” I don’t look at him. “Let me be humiliated in peace.”

He laughs. “Humiliated? Oh, Belle, you can get jealous any day over me. I liked it.”

“You only want an alibi.”

“I do like collecting them. I think you mean motive.”

“I don’t know what I mean.”

This time, as he eases the rag from me, I risk a look at him.

My heart veers sideways.

Up close, the lines that frame his eyes from laughter and a life call to me, and his hazel eyes hold a spark I swear is mine alone.

“Why are you here?”

“Why do you think, Red?”

“To give me a lift home?”

“And to see you. Hey, what can I say? I like you.”

“I like you.”

We both smile at each other.

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.

The kiss is slow and romantic with the right bite of roughness to it, the edge of carnal need and promises. I sink down into it, lips melding to his as our tongues dance. His kiss is a wonder, a revelation, and it’s just like coming home.

Losing myself in his kiss means I don’t need to think about the heart of his words, the fact he’s leaving. Like there’s a future between us. We’re too different. Our worlds aren’t in the same galaxy. But it’s nice to dream, to give over to the pleasure of someone, something dipped in magic.

It’s sweet, no strings, except while he’s here, it’s like he’s promising he’s mine.

I hope so.

Because I know I’m his.

For however long that might be.

Saint bites my lower lip, sucking it gently between his teeth. “Honey and fucking spice,” he says, letting me go. “That’s how you taste. And you taste like that everywhere.”

“Saint . . .”

He pulls me closer, and I can feel the hard steel of his erection, see the arousal in his gaze, the slightly blown pupils, the beat of his pulse in his neck.

“We should get out of here, get home, and maybe fool around.”

“I like the idea of that.”

He kisses me again and grabs Nomad, stuffing him in his jacket. I lock up. He secures the helmet on me, and we ride back, my heart thumping out little thrills with each beat. A short time, a long time, I guess it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s good, I decide.

My buzz of happiness lasts until we pull up in the courtyard, and I see another bike.

He helps me off and lets the cat jump free.

Saint utters one word. “Fuck.”

Then I see why.

All the happiness and thrills crash to the ground.

This woman is stunning.

She’s tall, her tight, ripped jeans show off the kind of legs that belong on a supermodel, and her dark hair’s long and wild. The woman’s also drop-dead gorgeous and, as she flicks her hair back, her hand’s tattooed.

Never, in a million years, could I compete with her.

Compete because they’re something, or were. It’s in his stillness. The heat in her gaze, hot like a brand of ownership.

“Saint,” she says. “Good to see you.”

“Sin, you too.”

Like I’m not there, she crosses to him and kisses him.