Chapter 8
[Lumi]
Idon’t get to Rusty’s Wrecks until my lunch break on the next day, although Neve and I have discussed the tragedy of the Aston Martin over the phone.
“Do you have any idea how much that car is worth? How much he must be worth?” My younger sister asked, but I didn’t respond. I don’t want to know the answers, and I’d be worried about my sister and materialism if I didn’t know her better.
When I step into Rusty’s waiting area, I’m gobsmacked by what I see.
Next to the forest green sports car is Saint, dressed in a white Henley with mechanic bibs rolled down to his waist and wearing a baseball cap.
He’s gone from Santa heartthrob to auto shop bad boy, and parts on my body start to pulse in ways they haven’t in a long time.
For lack of a better comparison, my engine is suddenly revving when the battery has been dead for a while.
Saint is bent beside his car, removing the side panel over the right wheel well.
“What is he doing?” I whisper to my sister, like Saint can hear me from our position inside the waiting area, which has a window that provides a clear view of Mr. Bent-over with his firm backside in the air.
The small lobby has a few stackable chairs, which look dingy no matter how often we’ve cleaned them. Neve stands behind the front counter.
“He said he couldn’t sit still, so he decided to start taking damaged pieces off the vehicle.”
“Is it really going to be weeks before it’s fixed?” I ask. The timing cuts awfully close to Christmas.
Neve stares through the cloudy window. “Yep. Fancy car. Fancy delays on parts, especially up here. The axle is bent. The front wheel alignment screwed, and he needs a new tire, which happens to be a specialty one.”
Any more details, and Neve is going to lose me.
The bare basics about automobiles are the extent of my wheelhouse.
Neve was the one who followed our father around after our mother passed away.
She had always been close to him. The female counterpart to the male child he never had.
Dad loved his girls, but he still wanted a token son, and Neve tried desperately to fill the role.
“Interesting what a change of clothes can do for a man,” she blurts, pulling my attention from ogling Saint’s ass in those mechanic’s bibs.
“What do you mean?”
“He walked in here wearing khaki pants.” Neve dramatically shivers before pausing a second. “Negative ten.”
I laugh, loud but light, recalling the game Neve and I used to play, rating guys. For her, khaki pants have always been a negative number. She wants a man who is rugged and rough, not smooth and silky.
“Was he wearing that three-quarter zip sweater?” He’d had one on the morning I picked him up, which reminds me his pants were not classic chinos, but Carhartt jeans. My sister is so silly.
“Yep.” She pops the word, slipping her hands into her own bibs, which are fastened over her breasts.
“You know what that means?” I pause for effect. “Health insurance.”
Neve barks a laugh so loud, Saint stands and narrows his eyes in our direction, catching us watching him through the window. We both turn our heads, leaning over the front counter as if something fascinates us about the chipped countertop.
Only within seconds, Neve lifts her head, side-eyeing the bays. “He kind of looks like a hot Santa.”
I whisper, “I know, right?” I peek over my shoulder, hoping to catch another glimpse of Saint without getting caught.
My thoughts flip back to this morning when my shoes were stuffed to the brim with sex-enhancing sensory products.
Whether a joke or not, he’d gone out of his way to make me feel better about Danny’s absence and my absentmindedness, momentarily thinking I’d forgotten the special day.
He gave me a new reason to celebrate. His birthday. While he’d tried to play it off as no big deal, he still shared the evening with me, momentarily distracting me from sad thoughts about Danny’s absence. The gesture was rather sweet, if not a bit enticing.
Whatever shall I do with all those pleasure items? Use them alone or with that someone special in my life?
I pull my gaze from Saint and look at Neve. “He looks like that Target one.”
“What? No.” Neve grimaces, but her gaze drifts toward the bays again. “More like that book with the naughty next-door Santa-like character.”
I chuckle as my sister is terrible at remembering titles and author names.
When she gasps, I glance at her startled face, then follow her gaze aimed at the garage.
I turn my head in time to watch as Saint finishes twisting the baseball cap on his head from bill forward to flipped backward.
Neve slams her hand on the countertop, causing me to jump, and I let out a squeak as I turn back toward her.
“Sweet Christmas.” She whistles low. “Plus fifteen for the backward baseball cap.”
We collapse over the counter in a fit of giggles, like when we were teens checking out the various mechanics our dad hired.
I’d worry about Neve’s attention on Saint, but I know she’s only ever had eyes for one man. One who eventually broke her heart.
With a hesitant glance, I gaze back toward the bays, watching Saint squat in intense concentration while working on something near the wheel well.
“I see that look,” Neve says, drawing my attention again.
I meet eyes that match mine. The Nordic blue coloring is something we inherited from our mother.
“What look?” The question is innocent enough, but I’m worried that Neve can read my thoughts.
The naughty ones I’ve been having since discovering a shoe full of sensory items and chocolate this morning.
And then imagining how I might use those items with my temporary housemate.
“Like you want to take a bite of him.”
“He does smell like peppermint and chocolate,” I tease, pressing my forearms on the counter and leaning toward my sister on the other side. Despite the quip, my face heats, like she’s caught me stealing said chocolate out of a holiday gift box of them.
“And we know this how?” She arches a brow.
I smile at the collective we and ignore her question.
“So, you decided to let him stay at your house.” Neve lets the comment hang a minute, like mistletoe in a doorway.
“You told me to,” I remind her. “Remember . . . it’s Christmas. And Hideaway is packed. There’s no room at any inn.” I spin my finger like it will jog her memory. “You said it might be fun.”
She hadn’t been wrong. So far, I have had fun hanging out with Saint.
It’d been nice to have dinner with someone new.
We walked back to my place mostly in silence, but it wasn’t awkward.
Just Saint taking a moment to point out the stars and I took a second to appreciate the magic of them.
Twinkling so bright, yet pinpricks on a dark canvas, light-years away from Hideaway Harbor.
“Lumi.” Her tone is a warning. And a reminder. This is how I got myself in trouble the first time. The only time. When trouble knocked and I let him in.
“He had nowhere to go,” I defend, like I take in strays on the regular when the decision had been a total whim. It also was the fault of candy cane martinis. Plus, that something so familiar sensation about him. The beard. The hair. The color red on him. I cannot place it.
“Just be careful,” she warns, like she’s the older sister.
I round the counter and bring her into me for a hug. “I always am.”
She knows I am. I’ve never been anything but careful, except that one time.
When I release my younger sister, I take a final glance toward the garage, catching Saint watching us.
He looks concerned until I wave, and the tension on his face eases. His smile is lazy, looping up on one side like the hook that holds up my Christmas stocking.
I’m in so much trouble. Again.