Or maybe I’m more than that. I swear my heart skips a beat.
I panic internally and pull away.
Lust is one set of feelings. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something more than gratitude for Saint’s care.
But someone thinking about me. Caring about what I say enough to act on it and do something positive in the world. That’s the kind of thing that inspires real feelings. And romantic love doesn’t exist. I’m certain of it.
“I left you some dinner in the oven,” I say hastily, then get up from the bench. I’m worried about what I might do or say next in gratitude. And I’m conflicted in that I both want and dread what might follow. “I’m going to get an early night.”
Leaving confusion in his eyes and in my stomach, I hurry inside.
10
BRIAR
When I step out into the living room the following morning, Saint is asleep on the sofa. He’s not wearing a shirt; the blanket sits low on his hips. For a moment I wonder if he’s naked beneath until I see the ivory of a drawstring from shorts or joggers peeking out over the blanket.
His body is a masterpiece, and I allow myself to look for a moment. His arms and chest are muscled. His hair is back off his face, and I can see the shape of his high cheekbones more clearly. There is a scar on his forearm, and I wonder how he got it.
The cut lying over the back of the sofa makes me wonder if it happened while he was doing something dangerous.
Something illegal.
But even that can’t make me feel bad about my guardian angel.
I’m embarrassed by my physical reaction to our conversation the previous evening. But maybe it’s the sign I needed to get back to my life. The respite of being here, of not having to make any major decisions about what to do next, to simply be and adapt to this new version of my life, has been vital.
“You done staring?” he asks. His voice is layered with gravel and likely some Jack from the bottle that sits close to the sofa, but his eyes remain closed.
“How did you know?”
“Army. Bomb disposal. I worked in silent high pressure. Plus, the bedroom door creaked when you opened it.” Now he does open his eyes. “Did you need something, Briar?”
I love the way my nickname rolls off his tongue. “I need to go back to my apartment. See what those men may or may not have done. I need to start to put the pieces of myself back together. I’ve got work for clients that I’ve put off for too long, and I need my equipment to do it. I know I arranged for my bank card to come here, but I think I should go home.”
And, as I decided somewhere around two in the morning, I need to put some distance between me and him. Before I make a fool out of myself.
Saint rubs a hand across his face, then sits up slowly. “Give me thirty minutes to shower and deal with some shit. We can have breakfast on the way. And I can drop your bank card over when it arrives.”
“Maybe you’ll let me buy breakfast or brunch or whatever. Given you’ve been so generous. Put it on my tab.”
Saint stands and moves closer to me. It doesn’t freak me out. He runs a knuckle down my cheek, and for a moment, I think I see something more than friendship in his eyes. “Nice try, but not gonna happen.”
While Saint showers, I pull what few belongings I have together and stuff them in the bags from Target.
When he steps out of his room, he’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that stretches perfectly across his chest, but instead of his leather cut, he’s wearing an unzipped sweater. And on his feet are sneakers, not boots. His hair is tucked beneath a ball cap.
This isn’t the biker I’m used to seeing. I don’t know which version of him I like better.
He grins as if he can read my thoughts and drops the bag he’s holding to the floor. “Thought a little bit of disguise might not go amiss. Those guys were watching your place. If they really want you, they may be watching still. We’ll take the truck, not the bike. I’ll wear this instead of my cut.” He plops a ball cap on my head at a funny angle.
While he says the words kindly, my heart drops. What if he’s right? What if it’s too soon to go back? What if they are waiting for—
“Briar,” Saint says as he reaches for my biceps. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
I do as he says, acknowledging the tension that has my shoulders up by my ears. I take a deep breath and force them to lower. As I stare into the bluest eyes, I relax.
“Good girl,” he says. “I’m armed. We’ll drive around once first. Then we’ll figure out how close we can get the truck to the fire escape. We’ll go in the front and out the back. If you don’t want to go in when you get there, you don’t go in.”
