Chapter 3 Saoirse
THREE
SAOIRSE
If there’s a heaven for down-on-their-luck schoolteachers, I’ve found it, and it’s got an eight-hundred-thread-count duvet and blackout curtains that make you forget sunlight is even a thing.
The first thing I notice, waking up, is the sound of nothing, which is pretty much the polar opposite of my apartment complex on a Saturday morning.
There are no screaming toddlers, no neighbors fighting over who stole whose sparking spot, not even the cheerful cawing of the birds that have built a nest in my broken heater vent.
It takes me a second to remember where I am, but when I do, it’s a headlong crash of embarrassment and relief.
Last night, I survived humiliation in the form of an indecent elf costume, the world’s sleaziest Santa, and my car dying a glorious and permanent death on the side of the road.
The universe’s one act of mercy? Flint rescuing me and, after some pretty epic negotiating, I agreed to stay with him, and he let me have five minutes in my old apartment to hastily pack an overnight bag.
By the time we got to his place, I was exhausted. I’m pretty sure I did not so much “crash” as “face-plant” into bed. But still. I’m alive. I’m warm. I’m not filming some bizarre, black-market Christmas porno. I call that a win.
Rolling over, I squint at the room. It’s nothing like what I expected.
I mean, yes, I was too tired and traumatized to really notice last night, but Flint’s home is basically a Pinterest fever dream consisting of exposed beams, polished wood floors, and soft white walls hung with giant sepia-toned photographs of horses and mountains.
There’s even a fluffy white rug at the foot of the massive king-sized bed.
The window, hidden behind those magical blackout curtains, overlooks a sprawling view of the Carrington Ranch, complete with frosted grass, picturesque barns, and what I’m pretty sure is a distant herd of actual cows.
I blink again, trying to decide if this is a dream or some new level of stress-induced hallucination. For the first time in my adult life, I slept on a sheet that has not seen the inside of a Laundromat. I let out a little, involuntary sigh and drag myself to the ensuite bathroom.
I glance in the mirror and realize this is not my best look. My hair is a nest, my eyeliner has migrated south for the winter, and my lips might be permanently stained red from last night’s lipstick.
I kick off my faded pjs and tiptoe across the warm ceramic tiles.
Oh. Those are so warm. I bet they’re heated.
I’m officially dead and in heaven. The guest bathroom is bigger than my entire freaking apartment.
I open the perfectly clear shower door and find two separate shower heads and an overhead rainfall thingy. I might never leave this bathroom.
I twist the handle and, holy mother of spa days, steaming hot water pours out of both shower heads at once.
For a full three seconds, I just stand there in shock.
Then I jump under the spray and let a legit waterfall rain down on me.
Oh. My. God. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so clean and alive at the same time.
The water isn’t just hot. It’s perfect. Like, Goldilocks-just-right. No icy mood swings. No slow, sad trickle. My old apartment was good for about sixty seconds of warm water, and then it was like showering under the tears of a vengeful ice fairy.
This? This is a full-on fantasy.
I spot a collection of fancy soaps and bottles, pick up a shampoo that smells like wildflowers and expensive weekends, and just stand there, lathering up, refusing to leave.
All I do is stand there, eyes closed, letting the waterfall shower and fancy toiletries do their magic while I have an out-of-body experience about the last twenty-four hours.
I mean, honest to God, if someone had told me I’d spend Friday night running away from a pervy Santa, crash-landing in a bar full of cowboys, and waking up in a smoking hot ranch manager’s personal guest suite, I would have laughed myself breathless.
And yet, here I am, washing off the trauma and hoping my good luck doesn’t run out.
Once I’ve washed and conditioned my hair twice, I turn off the water and step out. An automatic heater turns on, instantly warming up the entire bathroom. I’m officially in heaven.
I towel off, throw my damp hair into a knotted ponytail, and dig through my overnight bag for anything remotely normal.
I give major side-eye to the sad contents.
One pair of yoga pants, a Christmas sweatshirt that says “I'M ONLY A MORNING PERSON ON DECEMBER 25TH,” and a pair of socks with reindeer wearing sunglasses. Not my sexiest look, but considering last night was the closest I’ve come to starring in my own true crime documentary, I’ll take it.
I squeeze into the yoga pants. They’re extra tight right now because I stress-ate my way through a family pack of off-brand Oreos last week, but whatever. I tug the Christmas sweatshirt over my head, pull on the ridiculous socks, and stare at my reflection. This is as good as I’m getting today.
Whatever. At least there’s no jingle bell hat.
I grab my phone and find it’s still dead.
Oops. I was so tired, I forgot to charge it.
I shove it in my pocket and head out into the unknown.
I steel myself and step out into the hallway, following the faint, heavenly smell of coffee.
I walk past a series of open doors and descend a set of stairs that opens into the main living area.
It’s even more ridiculous from the ground floor.
There’s a giant stone fireplace, a leather couch the size of a yacht, and a kitchen that looks like it was custom-built for someone who actually knows how to cook.
On the counter, there’s a bowl of fruit, which is both impressive and wildly unnecessary.
The kitchen island is topped with thick, veined marble and some sort of centerpiece made of antlers and fresh pine.
There’s even a real Christmas tree in the corner, trimmed with tiny white lights and simple wooden ornaments.
I find Flint standing barefoot at the stove, one muscled calf flexed as he shifts his weight, his tight gray sweatpants riding low on narrow hips.
His black t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders and clings to the defined ridges of his abs each time he moves.
He flips a golden-brown pancake with the casual precision of a Food Network pro.
The sizzle of butter hitting the hot cast iron fills the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma.
His hair is still damp from the shower, dark strands sticking up in the back like he'd only bothered to run his fingers through it. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows catches on the slight stubble along his jaw as he concentrates on the skillet, completely unaware of my presence.
I pause in the doorway, awkward, clutching the sleeves of my sweatshirt.
For a second, I wonder if I’m freaking dreaming, but then he turns around and smiles, and my ovaries stand up and sing.
Nope. I’m definitely awake. “Morning,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to be standing here in his kitchen.
“Uh. Good morning.” I have never, in my life, felt so underdressed and overdressed at the same time. “I, um, hope you don’t mind that I used the shower.”
He shrugs, unfazed. “That’s what it’s for.” He gestures at the coffee maker. “Grab yourself a cup. Mugs are in the cabinet to your left.”
I do as I’m told, because one, I really want coffee, and two, there’s something about Flint that makes me want to be really, really good at following directions. Even if it’s just about breakfast beverages.
I pour a cup and sidle to the island, leaning against the marble. I take a sip of the black gold and groan my appreciation. “This is good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He gives me a smile that turns my insides to mush.
“Have a seat.” He points at the breakfast bar.
“And talk to me while I cook our breakfast.” My entire body is a vibrating bundle of nerves, and I nearly miss the stool when I plunk myself down.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I don’t topple onto the floor and die of mortification right here and now.
No one would blame me. I mean, Flint in gray sweatpants at sunrise?
That’s basically a cardiac event just waiting to happen.
He flips another pancake and tosses me a look over his shoulder. “You always this quiet in the morning, or is it me making you nervous?”
Oh, God. Direct hit. My face blazes like a Christmas tree, all flashing lights and sirens. “I’m not nervous,” I lie, immediately blowing it by almost knocking my coffee off the counter. I clutch the mug with both hands and try not to sweat through my yoga pants.
He grins, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. I kind of want to throw a pancake at his perfect smile, but mostly, I want to do something wildly inappropriate to his face. Like, say, climb it.
God, what is wrong with me? I’m not one of those girls who loses her mind at the sight of biceps. Or sweatpants. Or… okay, wow, apparently, I am absolutely that girl. Because, holy shit, Flint cooking breakfast is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
He leans back against the counter, spatula in one hand, and grins at me like he just caught me peeking at his Christmas present early.
“Hope you’re hungry, Sugar Plum.” He plates another stack of pancakes, then grabs something from the fridge. “You want syrup or jam? Or do you prefer your pancakes naked?”
Oh my God. Did he just say naked on purpose?
My face heats up like a six-alarm fire. “Uhh… whatever’s easiest. Syrup is great.”
“Good choice.” He finds the syrup, flips the cap, and pours the thick, golden stuff all over my pancakes while I try not to watch the way his forearms flex. Or the way his sweatpants leave nothing to the imagination.
Honestly, it should be illegal to look that good before 9 a.m.
He slides the plate in front of me, and my stomach growls loudly as I stare down at the mile-high stack of pancakes and thick-cut bacon.
Oh God. I’m in so much trouble here. I need to get my hormones under control.
I take a bite of pancake, and it’s so good I make an involuntary noise—somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
He just… stares. His eyes are pinned to my mouth. Dark, hot, and so intense I nearly melt off the damn stool.
I want to say something witty, but my brain does that thing where it goes blank, and all I can do is sit there, cheeks blazing, fork halfway to my lips.
“Got a little…” His voice is a rumbly hush as he leans toward me. His gaze never leaves my lips.
His thumb swipes the tiniest drip of syrup from the corner of my mouth. I swear, I forget how to function as a human. Oxygen? Never heard of it.
He brings that syrup-coated thumb to his mouth and licks it clean. Just casually, no big deal, as if he isn’t standing two feet away from me, wearing sweatpants that leave exactly zero to the imagination.
Oh my God.
My brain short-circuits. I forget my own name.
“Eat up, Sugar Plum.” Flint pours himself a mug of coffee and leans his hip against the counter, watching me intently. “Gotta make sure you keep your strength up after yesterday’s adventure.”
I make some kind of noise, probably a whimper, as I stuff another forkful of pancake in my mouth.
Flint laughs, low and rumbling, and sets about making his own plate.
“So,” he says, sliding onto the stool next to mine, “what’re your plans for the day?”
I take another bite before answering. “I… have to figure out how to get my car fixed. And look for a miracle job that’ll pay for my car repairs.
And if I have any extra, I’ll start looking for a new apartment, since you made a pretty convincing case about my current living situation.
” I glance sideways at him. “Do you make it a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?” Please say I’m the only one.
His mouth quirks. “Never have before.” He takes a bite of pancake, chews, and looks me up and down.
“But you’re the exception to the rule.” My heart does this weird, throbbing little backflip.
I swear to God, I can actually feel it. I try to play it cool, but nope.
There’s no hiding the red blush crawling up the side of my face.
“Should I take that as a compliment?” I mumble, but it comes out more like a question. I stuff my mouth with pancake because that’s the only way I’ll survive this conversation.
Flint’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “It is what it is, Sugar Plum.” He runs a finger down the side of my face, sending shivers shooting down my spine. “One look at you and I lost my goddamn mind, then my heart followed closely behind it.” I freeze. Literally, I just stop existing for a second.
Did he really just say that? Am I awake? Or is this still dreamland?
“Wha—?” My mouth opens and closes like a cartoon character. I’m just staring at him while he sits there, looking all casual, like he didn’t just launch a nuclear bomb at my frontal cortex. My ovaries are doing the Macarena.
He takes another bite of pancake, eyes on me the whole time, then adds, “Not that I ever planned on losing my goddamn heart. But then you came in last night dressed like that, looking lost as hell, and I knew I was done for.”
I choke. On air. And also on pancake, but mostly air.
“Did I wake up in the freaking Twilight Zone?” I laugh, but I’m so nervous that it comes out squeaky.
“If you did, I’m there with you.” He laughs and walks over to grab the coffee pot. As he tops off my coffee cup, I shovel another bite of the world’s most perfect pancakes into my mouth. “We’ll figure this shit out together.”
For the first time in a long, long time, I let myself hope that maybe the universe is done screwing with me.