Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Belle

He’s gone. Saint’s gone.

I stare at his apartment. The door’s unlocked. I know because I tested it this morning after knocking. Pathetic little me, wanting to see him on Christmas Day.

He didn’t answer because he’s gone.

Just like he said.

Only . . . I thought—hoped—he’d wait a day.

I know a day makes zero difference in the scheme of things. Gone is gone. Ends are ends. Rip off the damn Band-Aid and all that.

But . . . it’s Christmas.

My eyes itch at the silence from the other side of the door. The emptiness that seems to drop the temperature.

I could open it, but I’m not going to. His bike is gone. Last night when I peeked late, no lights were on.

“Come on, Belle,” I whisper. “What did you expect? Him to miraculously appear? He told you he was out of here.”

A sad meow wafts up, and I look down, crouching and scratching Nomad’s silky fur between his soft, pointy ears.

“He left you too.”

Nomad mews and swishes his tail, stalking off and up the stairs.

“Yeah?” I say to the cat. “I don’t like it either. He left me too.”

There’s something so painful about this. I love Nomad. I’m glad he’s here.

But I thought, for all his talk, he’d take the cat.

Like everything else, I’m wrong, and that hurts.

There’s a celebration party for both Christmas and spillover from yesterday’s victory that’s going to start soon. So, I follow Nomad up to my apartment. I don’t want to go down there.

For all of Nomad’s weird sociability, he doesn’t seem drawn to it. Or maybe he knows I’m channeling sad loner for all it’s worth.

I should go, I know. I saw them setting up in the garden, the invitations rolling thick and fast because my friends and neighbors seem to pick up on the sad loner schtick too.

Saint . . .

It hurts, thinking now how Saint will never see it in its glory. He saw it cold and dead from winter, but the other three months it’s glorious, spring offering new growth. Summer, the blooms and colors fade into the rusts of fall, and then sleep.

Even now, I could have shown it all to him.

Told him in the winter, it can be glorious.

I wish it had snowed.

The gardens are beautiful in the snow.

I don’t look again.

I’m not hungry, but I feed Nomad, then grab a couple of leftover cookies and the whiskey dregs. I settle down on the sofa with Nomad and my cookie-booze lunch. I click through the channels and settle on some silly old Christmas movies on the TV.

The first one ends, and I’m nice and cat-toasty and soft from the whiskey, so when the next movie starts, I leave it.

“ It’s a Wonderful Life ,” I say to Nomad. “How apropos. Sort of.”

Without the dark thoughts of George and lack of angels, of course.

Nomad meows and returns to purring.

As I watch the movie, my eyes drift shut.

The knock on the door wakes me with a start. Groggy, I rub my face and sit up. Nomad jumps off the sofa and stalks off to eat, apparently annoyed I moved and wrecked his warm human water bottle.

Downstairs from the back, carols play and laughter drifts up. With a sigh, I stand. It’s probably Pepper on the other side, sent to drag the idiot loner downstairs. What I should do is change out of my elf PJs. But I can’t be bothered.

Besides, she’ll get a kick out of the pajamas.

Pulling open the door, I look down at strong, long legs wrapped in denim. My breath stutters as I drag my gaze up. It’s not Pepper.

My knees go weak, and I have to grab the wall to steady myself.

“Belle,” Saint says in the dark voice that turns me all shivery. “Nice jammies.”

I don’t move. I’m frozen.

The last word I ever expected from that gorgeous, masculine man is jammies .

It makes my emotions bloom.

I’m not sure why I’m so warm inside, so light and filled with love. Maybe it’s because he likes my pajamas. Maybe because he’s always unexpected and faceted, or maybe it’s just because it’s him, here.

Now.

Wait.

Pajamas?

A small shriek breaks free, and I slam the door shut in Saint’s face. “Go away.”

“Fuck no. You kidnapped my cat.”

“You’re a maniac,” I say, heart going full traitor mode and fluttery. “You don’t want that cat.”

“The overgrown rodent’s grown on me. I built him a cool cat biker capsule.”

“You modified a backpack carrier.”

“Semantics, Belle. Open the fucking door.” His voice drops. “Please.”

My voice drops too. “No. You saw me in my elf pajamas.”

“I’ve seen your duckie pajamas too. Open up.” He pauses. “Belle, I got to the outskirts before turning back. I want the cat. You too. I want you both. Belle, I—don’t make me say this out here.”

“Saint?”

“You know my name.”

“Nicholas.”

My heart’s slamming hard against my ribs, and everything is in freefall. It’s not he’s seen the pajamas. Of course, it’s not.

It’s that he’s here.

He returned, and I don’t know why.

The pajamas were the catalyst for the door slam. The real core of it’s I love him. I’m in love with him. He’s come back and turned the pain into blooming hope, happiness, and love.

If I’m wrong . . .

That’s why the door’s shut.

I want to open it.

I need a reason.

Just that one.

He’s silent. My breath grows tight, my lungs burn, and my fingers dig into my palms.

Then Saint finally speaks. “I came back because I fell in love with you, and I think my nomad days are done.” His voice vibrates through the wood as though he’s right up against it. “My life’s with you. If you’ll have me.”

I rip open the door and stare up at him. He’s so close, eyes burning.

Oh my God.

Everything melts. Every. Thing.

The man’s wearing a Santa hat.

I honestly don’t think I’ve seen anything so sexy in my life.

It shouldn’t be sexy, but it is.

Oh, boy, it is.

“Saint.”

“Belle.”

In the Santa hat, it hits me, and I breathe it out. “Saint Nicholas? Saint Nick?”

“That is not the right response to me ripping my heart out and handing it to you.” His mouth twitches.

He’s like a young, hot Santa.

I need to get a grip.

“You hurt me.” This can’t just be sweep everything away. I have to say it. “You hurt me, Nick.”

He narrows his eyes. But, I realize, not at the use of his non-road name. “You’re going to make me fucking work for this. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

But he’s melting my defenses, like his sheer presence is fire to the ice I’m trying to stack around me. “Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?”

“I just take hearts.” My mouth trembles. “One. If I can.”

“And then what? Cut it up?” It doesn’t faze him, what I’m saying.

Hope rises once again.

“Only if it deserves that.”

“Belle.”

I can’t crumble, I can’t. Okay, I’ve mostly crumbled, but I can’t crumble fully. I need . . . I need . . .

“Belle, I couldn’t tell you earlier. I didn’t want to screw things up by saying something your ex could get me for. If I made it seem like I handed over anything, he’d probably fuck everything up. So, others did the dirty work for me. And?—”

He stops.

“I’m telling you the truth. But I’m also fucking lying,” he says quietly. “I got scared. You . . . you’re this shining light, you’re everything a man could want. More. And I should have told you, but then things got too late, so I came up with a way to help save this place.”

I know him. He saved it, not helped. He did this.

“And then I rode off because even bikers get scared,” he says. “And if you rejected me or didn’t feel the same way, then I don’t know. It’d fucking tear me apart.

“Which is why I’m standing here, heart on sleeve, groveling for you to give me a chance.”

I could make him get down on his knees. Or I could try. But why?

“He hired you before you met me?”

“Meeting you was a fluke. Just a random thing the fucking fates wanted to screw with. Nothing planned. You and me? Wildest fucking ride in my life. Red, I never crossed a line. What I should’ve done is back the fuck out or told you. But by the time I knew I wasn’t doing a thing he wanted me to do, I couldn’t find the words for you. And I was gonna leave, or so I thought. And . . .”

I look at him. “You thought being here helping the other tenants out was a smarter move.”

The embarrassment that blooms with his slight nod is all I need to know.

“I did come here to tell you how I felt. Because I couldn’t seem to leave. But I had another reason. One that others could’ve done. There’s some legal bullshit Sin and this lawyer friend of Hannah’s found. This place? Seems he can manage it, but can’t have it. Esther? His gran? Loved it. Wanted it to belong to the residents. Like a co-op or something? This isn’t my area.”

“She what?” Happiness spreads through every cell. But with it is the wild heat of him and his standing here, the meaning of his words, for me.

He cares.

He loves me.

He came back.

He did all this for me.

It’s worth the entire world.

“And Lance?” I ask. “I don’t care about him like that. I just . . . is he going to be a problem?”

“Hannah’s lawyer friend’s good. Seems no one will press charges if he does this round of fixes, and when he opens his Hank’s, jobs are offered to residents. If he pays for renovations needed to bring it up to scratch. Going forward, you’ll need a super, one part-time at least. The rest is being worked out after the holiday.”

My heart squeezes, and I cross to him. “Really? Who’d be the super? I’ve got a feeling this building’s going to have high standards.”

“It’s going to be a fine line. Things can be modernized without ruining the original concept.”

“That would have to be someone clever. Someone who knows people. Someone like you.”

“I’m not fucking letting you hire anyone else.”

We look at each other, and I can’t help it. I cross to him, put my hands on his face, and bring him close.

“I’m in love with you, too, Saint Nick.”

“That works for me.”

“Stupidly,” I add. “Painfully. Ridiculously.”

“Ridiculously?”

“You’re wearing a Santa hat.”

“Gotta match your taste in pajamas somehow, Red.”

He kisses me, long, slow, and dreamy. It’s the kind of kiss filled with love and happiness and a future undefined, ready to be painted with wonderful memories.

“I have something to show you. Nomad found it.”

He leads me through my apartment to the hall where the extra bedroom is. There’s a closet opposite, big enough to keep my washer and dryer, and a door that’s been painted shut. I always assumed it led to the apartment next to me that was empty.

“I jimmied it the other side . . . get some shoes and a crowbar.”

Frowning, I say, “I don’t own a crowbar.”

“Outside your front door.”

With a sigh, I retrieve the bag with a crowbar sticking out and shove my feet in my shoes as I head back.

He rummages and hands me a flashlight. “Need to fix the wiring.”

My curiosity is on fire.

Saint jimmies the door open, old paint cracking and floating down in small pieces. Opening it, he turns and holds out his hand as Nomad darts around us and in. I go to hand him the flashlight, but he shakes his head.

“C’mon, Red, when a biker in a Santa hat holds out his fucking hand. What do you think he wants?”

My breath tangles in my throat. “My hand.”

“The lady takes a prize.” I put my hand in his hand, and he closes his fingers around it, then raises it to his lips and kisses me. “Turn on the light.”

I do, and he leads me down creaking stairs until light and wonderful scents start to seep in.

Nomad swishes his tail and meows, turning to look at us. His eyes gleaming wild as the light reflects on them.

“Okay, fucking little rodent,” Saint says, voice full of warmth, “we’re going.”

He opens the door, and the cat saunters in.

Saint and I follow.

I’ve seen his apartment before, but I’ve never been here when it smells quite like this. The deep, savory aroma is warm, wonderful, and feels like home.

“Seems back in the day, these were two-story places. So, I thought . . . if you wanted, we could open it up. That way, there is no back and forth on the outside stairs. And one day, maybe . . . Shit, I don’t know. I’ve got money. A lot of money since I’m excellent at my job and don’t yet have a home. I thought maybe this would do. With you.”

“Just like that.”

He pulls me against him. “Just like fucking that.” The kiss is fierce and proprietary in all the right ways. “Okay, we could have it. I’m here, and you’re there, and then one day, if you want, we can turn this into our home, turn it back to a more open version of what it once was. I’m betting there are original plans.”

“You, me, Nomad?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re making a roast?”

He’s not even fazed by my sudden turn in conversation. “Christmas lunch or dinner for us. Chicken, mash, baked veg. A salad. I just got a whole lot of things. Yes, a roast.”

I nod. “But what if I want to hit the road and not nest?”

“You’re not abandoning your kids.”

“Maybe I will.”

His eyes start to shine, and I know I’ve said the right thing. “I can teach you to ride if you want. Maybe one day, get you your own bike. Build it for you. We can go places on the school vacations. Hit the road then?”

I love being a teacher. It’s in my bones.

So is he, and Nomad.

Now, what seemed like a good life isn’t complete and . . .

“I’d love that, Saint.”

“You can call me Nick. Or Nicholas.”

“You’re a Nicholas,” I say. “And a Saint.”

“You can call me both.”

“Can I call you ‘my love’?”

“I’m fucking betting on it.”

He grins and kisses me again. It is a new beginning kind of kiss, the first step on the path of forever.

“What are you going to call me?”

“Love of my life? My Red, my Christmas Belle. My fucking heart.”

I kiss him.

As Nomad offers up a satisfied meow.

The three of us, here, upstairs, on the road, wherever it is, it’ll be home.

Because Saint’s my home, Christmas all year round.

My forever.

Nomad starts to purr.