4. Chapter 4
Ames
At first, I don't notice that Saint has come home. I'm too busy watching videos of me going viral. When I've memorized the shot someone recorded, I find another one. So far, I've seen three versions from different angles. A few edits.
If nothing else, the rage I see on my face makes me feel better.
Until I find the videos made by Aidan's fans.
As a suave Irish musician and all around artist, with his impeccable looks and charismatic presence, he has plenty of those.
He's a fixture of the late night show and, when his deep blue eyes stare into the camera, sighs come to life all over the country.
I know, because I used to be one of those fans. When I got the contract catering for the network and I got to meet him, I was absolutely starstruck. When he smiled at me and invited me out, I felt special. When he said he couldn't think of anyone else, I thought my dreams were coming true.
Fuck him.
I get up and, as soon as I'm out of the room, the sweet smell of baking and chocolate greets me .
And fuck me , Saint looks amazing in simple jeans and an embroidered blue hoodie, with tigers and lotus leafs and flowers in silver thread.
He bends to the top oven— he has one of those double baking compartment sets— as he pushes a tray of cookies in.
Those jeans must be custom-made, because his ass is perfectly round in tight-fit denim.
Ugh. Thoughts like that don't serve me well, especially not when I'm at the mercy of an emotional rollercoaster.
Angry and hurt over Aidan? Makes sense. Suddenly remembering how easy it is to lust over Saint? Reproachable.
A long time ago, Pablo was the typical misguided older brother and warned me off Saint.
Pablo insisted that's not what he was trying to do, but what was I supposed to think?
My brother reminded me that Saint dates at the same pace that he breathes, and that we would probably not work out.
Like I needed the warning at the time. I may need it now that we're living together, but it's an entirely too-premature thought.
It's just the shock of having Saint closer than I have in years, and more accessible to my senses than I've been used to.
I push all those notions away and sit at the kitchen island.
He faces me. A hint of worry lines his brow. "Did I wake you up? I'm sorry."
He wears his diamond earring tonight as well, and the look is effortlessly sexy.
Tsk, tsk, Ames. You shouldn't think about these things.
It's okay. I'm only acknowledging it as a fact.
It's an obvious, irrefutable statement. I've always known Saint is extremely attractive, with his hair and the way he styles it pushed back, giving him the just-out-of-the-shower look, no matter the time of the day.
His light brown skin is tan from working outside so often, in a sun-kissed way that is truly alluring.
He's tall and full of thick, long muscles, which he tends to dress in bold clothes.
It doesn't end there. His face is gorgeous.
The lines of it reflect the long history of mixing genetics in Latin America.
His dimples are delicious. His smile is always playful.
It's no surprise he has his own big fan club.
"I was awake," I respond. My tone is casual. Friendly. "I was doomscrolling. "
I add airquotes to the last word.
"Mhh." He arches an eyebrow. "Were you watching the video from this morning? Evie showed it to me."
I cringe. "You saw that?"
"It was epic. That righteous fury on your face— you really honored your last name, Amelia Guerrero."
I purse my lips not to show a full smile. It's wrong to be proud of that description. And the way he pronounced my name in perfect Spanish and with a Colombian accent…
"You probably want an explanation," I say instead, "before I ask to stay with you for a bit."
He leans on the stone surface of the island and studies me, arms crossed.
"It would satiate a question or two, but you don't have to explain or ask to stay.
I'm already saying yes. And I'll be pissed at Aidan regardless.
I don't need to know what he did to enlist my team and go give him a bit of a fright. "
"That's… very generous. But if I'm to invade your home for some time, I should at least explain why."
I hate that I have to ask Saint for refuge.
The idea that I might be a burden to him weighs me down with guilt.
Someone who has made the right choices would have their life together, and wouldn't need rescuing.
Now I'm asking my brother's friend to give me shelter, like he has any responsibility over me.
He gives me a long, serious look. I hold his gaze. He's the first to pull away. With a gentle nod— like he's made a decision— he sighs and turns to the oven.
After a quick glance at the timer, he puts his attention on the pot on the stove. "What did Aidan do?"
"How do you know it was him? I could have gone ballistic on him for no reason."
"Doubtful." His dimples are nowhere to be seen, but he smirks. "I don't really know him, but I know you enough to know you wouldn't waste good food on someone, unless they did something to earn it. "
His response would have gotten a grin from me any other day, because it's true, and I like that he knows this. Today, it gets a weak smile.
I'm putting on a brave face but, inside, my foundation is still cracked and sinkholes have appeared all around. Aidan and I were so good, I thought. We made so much sense. He was who I had been looking for. So why did he cheat?
No answer makes itself known. Confusion and pain is all I find when I look for the response.
I have to tread carefully, or I'll fall into one of those holes and who knows what would happen next.
All I can afford is to recoup, and figure out how to prevent the same thing from happening in the future. One day, when I'm ready to try again.
Saint doesn't add more and waits for my reply. I take a deep breath before admitting the truth. Somehow, I feel like I'm revealing something shameful about myself. How embarrassing, that I couldn't make things work with Aidan. Worse, that it ended the way it did.
My breath comes out shaky.
"I caught him with someone this morning," I say. "He was cheating on me. But my little rage show cost me the largest client I had."
"Ouch." His nose wrinkles. "Asshole."
"And since I lived with him while we shopped for a place of our own, I had nowhere to go."
"Incorrect." He lifts an eyebrow. "You have this place."
He checks the timer and the pot again, before taking a plate with cheese out of the fridge and placing it near me.
I rub my lips. "I appreciate you've always been around, no matter how busy you are. But you didn't sign up for a roommate. I don't want to get in the way of your life."
"I'm not concerned about that."
"Please, no need to pretend— I saw someone leave this morning as I came in— I'm pretty sure you invite people over often."
He doesn't say anything, but grabs two mugs and two spoons, and fills them up with what appears to be hot chocolate from the pot.
"Never mind that," he finally says. "I'm glad you don't have to worry about a place to stay. You can call this your home for as long as you need."
He pushes one of the mugs to me, and the other to the place next to me. I sniff the chocolate in my cup and detect a few spices. Cacao, cinnamon, and cloves are the strongest notes.
"I'm making you chocolate chip cookies and chocolate con queso." His Spanish is just as clear as when he said my name. He adds a few paper napkins to the arrangement. "I thought you'd enjoy a sweet treat tonight."
The timer goes off and he takes the tray out of the oven with swift moves. It looks graceful, just like when he's maneuvering to catch the ball in the middle of a game, or when he dances after a touchdown.
I may have watched the Strike play once or twice out of curiosity through the years.
It's never been a big deal. I've always known I have to be careful with my feelings around Saint.
Not because of what Pablo said years ago, but because I've always known Saint and I look for different things.
My brother just happened to have the same take as me.
And a secret part of me, one I keep hidden and away from sight, has always known I could easily let things get complicated with my brother's friend.
Soon there's a plate of cookies between the two spots, and he sits next to me. He throws a few cubes of cheese into my mug, and then some into his own.
"Cheese in chocolate?" I ask.
"Colombian treat. My mom made it for me often." He puts a teaspoon in each cup. "You scoop it out and let it amaze your palate."
I copy him and try the mix of spiced chocolate and melty white cheese together… and moan.
"Wow," I say. "Salty, sweet, flavorful…"
"Right?" He smiles.
Finally. Those dimples make an appearance .
"This is very nice of you, Saint. Thank you."
"Hey— I can be nice." He offers his mug for a clink, like we're toasting something. "In fact, nice is my brand. Until I'm not nice, if you get my meaning."
He winks, his dimples dangerous as ever.
I laugh. "I'm sure that's right."
"Try a cookie. I can't wait to hear what a trained chef has to say about them."
They're as good as the hot chocolate he made.
"This is wonderful, Saint."
"Thank you." He leans back on the barstool. With an elbow over the back of the leather seat, he watches me thoughtfully.
It's a gesture that shouts his openness to me, to life, or to both. It's a way of living that has always seemed so far away from me. So different from how I've been feeling all day.
It heightens the crushing feeling in my chest, that my life could be falling apart. A break up, my business at risk, no home to call mine. With most of my things still at Aidan's condo, it feels like my life is what I carry in my suitcase and nothing else is certain.