Chapter 5
[Lumi]
When I wake in the morning, I’m reminded why my forty-three-year-old body can no longer handle martinis like it did when I was twenty-one. My head is throbbing. My stomach sloshing. And my limbs are sluggish.
I need coffee. Stat.
Dressed in a loosely tied flannel robe over a T-shirt with a giant lobster on it, and long underwear leggings, I amble down the stairs from my second-floor bedroom, and stumble past the living room on a mission to the kitchen where I find the coffeemaker on.
“Huh.” I don’t recall turning it on. For that matter, I hardly remember getting home. As I live close to town in a section of older homes, the walk isn’t long, although with the storm two nights ago, it wasn’t my best move. Hideaway Harbor is safe enough. The snow is what can be dangerous.
Taking a mug from an upper cabinet, I pour myself a cup of fresh brew and inhale the steamy contents.
While it doesn’t smell particularly appetizing this morning, the mysteries of coffee need to work their magic because I need to check in with Neve about her newest service project and then get to work.
Closing my eyes, I inhale again as I turn, placing my backside against the countertop.
When I open my eyes, I scream, nearly dropping my full mug of hot coffee. “What the Christmas?”
“Hi.”
On the opposite side of the small butcher block table I use as an island stands Saint, dressed in a white, long-sleeved Henley and gray joggers, sporting delicious silver bedhead and . . . holy peppermint sticks.
I quickly glance away from the bulge in his sweats and slam my coffee mug on the counter beside me.
“What are you doing here?” I shriek, turning back toward him, and noticing he has slipped his hands into the pockets of his joggers, which does nothing to make the evidence of his morning wood disappear.
He slips a hand free and scratches at the back of his neck, sheepishly glancing at me. “You invited me to stay?”
“Did I?” Because the way he’s worded it, it doesn’t sound like I actually invited him.
He straightens, slipping his hand back into his pants, and baby Jesus in a manger, why am I noticing him adjust himself? Gripping the countertop harder for support, I glance to the side again.
Then another thought leaps into my head, and I swivel mine back in his direction so quickly my stomach pitches. “Did you and I—”
“What do you think?” He arches a brow, taunting me.
It would certainly explain the stiffness in my body, but surely, I’d feel something more, as it’s been so long.
He removes his hand from his pocket and rubs up his belly, dragging his shirt upward just the slightest bit to reveal a hint of dark hair leading below his waistband.
“We couldn’t,” I whisper as my stomach drops sickeningly at the thought I might have had sex and don’t remember it.
“We didn’t.” His eyes intently focus on mine, playful one minute, serious the next, as he rounds the island, lessening the distance between us.
“I would never ever take advantage of someone like that.” He pauses a beat, letting the earnestness of his tone sink in.
“I want my partner to be coherent and consensual, involved and invested.”
He takes another cautious step closer to me, but somehow not close enough.
“Because I want her to experience every lingering touch, every breathy sigh, every pleasurable moan I’ve extracted from her.”
Holy hotcakes. Is it suddenly hot in here? Did someone light the fireplace?
“And . . .” He arches a thick brow. “I’d want her to get my name correct.”
“Saint?” I question.
“Astan. You started calling me Ass-tan, though.”
Shit. I swipe a hand down my face, catching a whiff of my morning breath, and then wondering what my hair must look like. I swipe around one ear, brushing back the long loose locks before repeating the motion on the other side.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “But it still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” I tip forward as if I’ll find evidence of breaking and entering or something.
“You had a lot to drink.”
My head swings back in his direction as he scratches at the back of his neck again. His face pinches for a second.
“And I walked you home.” He glances up at me. “You really don’t remember that?”
“So, you let yourself in?” I snap, desperately trying to remember how many martinis I actually drank.
“You invited me in.” His hand falls from his neck, his expression a mix of crestfallen and concern, like he’s truly upset that I don’t remember inviting him into my home. Which was a damn risky thing to do as a single woman in a small town.
His brows crease, the severity of his concern deepening.
“You offered me the couch.” He nods toward the well-worn couch that faces the opposite direction which explains why I didn’t see him when I walked past it this morning.
Then again, I shouldn’t have missed the large, leather duffle bag in the corner of the living room, or the neat pile of clothes folded on top of it.
“You can’t stay here,” I say next, like he’s made himself comfortable when he hasn’t. I made him comfortable by inviting him in. I might need to rethink candy cane martinis on Mondays.
A thunderous knock comes to my front door, causing me to flinch, before the lock clicks, opening the door with the key I’ve provided only to my sisters and Danny. Within seconds, Neve is standing in my kitchen dressed in a short-waisted puffer jacket and wide-legged jeans.
And I’m standing in front of Saint as if I can hide the larger man behind my smaller stature.
“Well, hello.” She gives Saint an appraising glance that sends a quick streak of envy through me.
Neve has raven-colored hair, like me, but I dye my waves to match red wine.
Her hair is chopped into a cute bob and often held back with bobby pins to keep the weight out of her face, giving her the appearance of a 1930s beauty.
Men are quickly attracted to her wit and sarcasm.
I’m not really jealous of Neve as much as I’m skeptical of her interest in Saint.
Saint acknowledges her with a quiet, “Good morning.”
Neve glances at me, arching a brow. “Who have we here?”
“This is Saint,” I shift only slightly as I present him, then turn back to shield him once more. “And he was just leaving.”
Neve pouts, shifting her gaze from me to him and back. Her brows arch even higher on her second glance at me, demanding immediate details about him despite him standing only a foot behind me.
“He’s the Aston Martin.”
Neve’s eyes widen, and she whistles long and low, glancing back at Saint. Neve loves cars, hence her serving as the shop mechanic.
“He didn’t have a place to stay, so he crashed here last night.” The explanation sounds innocent enough until you consider that I don’t invite anyone to my place. Ever.
Learned my lesson once. Won’t fool me twice.
“How . . . convenient,” my sister drags out the comment, glancing between Saint and me once more before narrowing her gaze on me and my haggard appearance. I look more like I’ve crawled out of the attic than spent a night rolling around in bed with a hot Santa wannabe.
“But he’s not staying another night,” I clarify.
“Why not?” Neve and Saint say in unison before sharing a glance with each other.
I lower my voice, directed at my sister. “Because I’m not a fucking inn.” I’m a single woman, living alone, who likes her space, even if she has room for a guest.
“Everywhere else is booked,” Neve says, as if she’s part of the hospitality industry in this little village, and not the town mechanic. She casts another side-eye toward Saint, assessing him another second before muttering rather loudly toward me, “And you have room.”
“Neve,” I cry, quickly turning to look at Saint and then away because his mouth does that lazy curl, like he has all year for those lips to form a smile. He also looks like a little kid who has gotten a coveted gift on Christmas morning.
“What?” Neve lifts her hands, shrugging at the same time. “It’s Christmas. Hideaway is packed. And his car is going to take weeks to repair.”
“Really?” Saint and I say at the same time, then I scowl at him.
“I haven’t had a chance to look at your vehicle, but knowing the make and model, the parts will take a while to get shipped to our little corner of Maine.”
Based on my experience at the post office, I understand shipping demands and delays.
Saint hangs his head a second, and my shoulders fall, mouth twisting as I fight a twinge of guilt. It would suck to be stranded here. Then I remind myself it isn’t my fault he crashed his car. Or that it happened in Maine. Or he’s too damn good looking.
The last one throws me off, and I briefly close my eyes.
Once upon a time, I invited a man into my space, and he broke my heart. I can’t go through that again. Then again, we aren’t discussing love here. We’re talking about letting a stranger stay in my house.
Saint exhales before glancing up at me. “I know this is awkward, but I could pay you.”
“I don’t want your money,” I gripe, but I could use the money. Rusty’s could use the money.
“A hundred dollars a day,” he counters, and my brows lift. Quickly, I do the math. For seven days, that would equate to seven hundred bucks a week and a good chunk of what’s owed for Rusty’s mortgage. The re-mortgage Dad took out and didn’t tell anyone about, before he passed away.
But I’m already shaking my head, declining his offer.
“Two hundred,” he bargains like we’re in an open-air street market instead of in my small kitchen where his presence seems to be taking up too much space. Why does he have to look so good tumbling out of bed? Er, rather, off a couch.
I glance at Neve, who watches the exchange between Saint and me with curious interest. A soft smile forms on her face.
“What?” I snap at her.
Her head whips in my direction. “I didn’t say anything.”
“But you have a look on your face.”
“What look?”
“I don’t know,” I huff, flailing out my arm. “Just a look.”
Neve shakes her head, like I’m a chestnut roasting on an open fire. Cracking under the pressure.
“I stopped by for the spare keys for the tow. I can’t find the original set.” She glances at Saint. “And I have an Aston Martin to inspect.”
Then she looks back at me, shifting her shorter body so Saint can’t see her face. “Take the money,” she mouths.
“What?” I glance up at Saint and back at Neve. “No.”
Because the man cannot sleep on my couch for a week, even if my calculator brain doubles the fee and realizes the amount he’s offering would make nearly one month’s mortgage payment. A thirty-day financial reprieve for Rusty’s.
However, money is not the point and—
Neve steps closer to me. “Let him stay,” she whispers. “It might be fun.” She twitches her nose before glancing over my shoulder at Saint and wiggling her fingers in a wave.
“See you soon,” she says to him, swiping the spare keys from a hook near the fridge and stepping out of my kitchen, leaving me in a standoff with my wannabe housemate.
“I don’t know you,” I whisper, slumping against the counter again.
“You could get to know me.” His typically rugged voice is softer somehow, causing our eyes to meet and hold. The depths of his dark eyes has that spark again. Just a single gleam and then it’s gone. “Think of it like speed-dating.”
“What?” I shriek.
“Get to know your new roommate in thirty seconds or less.”
“Absolutely not,” I argue, although I chuckle.
“I’m Saint Santos.” He flattens his hand on his chest. “Local car accident victim. Fifty years old. Gainfully employed.”
“What do you do?” I ask like this is a speed dating moment. Then I think better of myself. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
I don’t care that he’s employed or fifty or a victim. He’s standing in my kitchen looking healthy as a caribou and too sexy for my own good.
“Last night, you told me you’re super busy, so you’ll hardly be bothered by me. And at night, I can . . . I don’t know . . . go somewhere for a while.”
“You’d still be sleeping in my home,” I remind him. Or is he implying he’d sleep with someone else and then come to my place to actually sleep . . . and what the heck do I care? Let him have a sleepover at the imaginary sleepover’s house.
“It didn’t matter to you last night.” His rough voice remains soft. Not threatening. Not teasing. Just stating a fact.
True. Maybe. I don’t know.
“On that note, I don’t like that you don’t remember inviting me in.” He tilts his head, his initial concern returning. “You need to look out for yourself. But as long as I’m here, I could look out for you, too.”
I’m stunned by the offer. I don’t have any idea what that would feel like. Someone looking out for me. And the suggestion certainly shouldn’t be coming from a stranger, but the vague sense of familiarity I experienced last night returns.
Would it really be so bad to have him around?
I glance at Saint one more time, taking in his broad shoulders, the strength in his arms, those grey sweatpants. Plus, the softness of his smile and hesitation in his eyes.
“I—” I rub at my throbbing temples, pressing my skull with my forefinger and thumb as if I can erase the lingering headache. My brain isn’t in a condition to process. It hurts to think.
Rusty’s mortgage. Danny’s absence. Stranger on my couch. The offenses hammer through my head.
“Here.” His voice comes closer to me, returning to our earlier position when he approached me and told me all the things he’d want a lover to experience with him.
“May I?” Holding up his hands, he pauses them near my face. His dark eyes are swirls of chocolate, teasing me, taunting me to give in. And for some unexplainable reason, I nod.
The second his thumbs come to either side of my temple, massaging in slow circles, I start to melt, needing my grasp on the countertop to support me before I puddle at his feet.
“Holy Rudolph and his fellow reindeer, that feels amazing,” I groan, with my eyes closed and his peppermint and chocolate scent filling my nose.
The fragrance should be a reminder that I drank too much last night but with his thumbs working their magic, I can’t think.
I simply relax until he removes his fingers.
“I don’t think reindeer can give massages.” His voice is light, teasing, and my eyes slowly open.
“Better?” he whispers. Even his voice is soothing, deep and rumbly.
With my eyes open, I’m met again with those black orbs, dark as coal this time, yet sparkling with something I don’t recognize.
I swallow thickly as he steps back. “You should probably get ready for work, right? I don’t want to get you in trouble and place you on the naughty list.”
However, another gleam in his eye says he’s all sorts of trouble and doesn’t mind being on the naughty list.
I can think of a few other things I’d like to do to put me on that list as well. However, being late for work would not be in my best interest, nor would remaining here, staring at him, like he’s who I’d like to cause all kinds of trouble with.