Chapter 9
[Lumi]
After work, the house is empty, and I assume Saint is still at the shop with Neve.
Despite the early evening, the sky is pitch black, and the house is quiet.
Almost too quiet. No Danny rushing up and down the staircase.
No race for dinner before a sports practice, or an actual game, or a holiday play.
No extra hustle and bustle as I’m the only one present.
It was silly to think about that long ago past as Danny has been away for years. Off to college. Living a dream. As he should.
So, I decide to make Christmas cookies. The kids who come into the post office might enjoy them. Lord knows if I keep them all to myself, I will eat them all by myself as well.
I’m in the midst of pulling out ingredients when a short rap comes to the front door. When I open it, Saint sheepishly stands on the front porch.
“I don’t have a key.”
And I’d locked the door as I do when I’m home alone, even if Hideaway Harbor’s crime rate is extremely low.
“I’ll . . . I’ll give you the spare.” I hold the door as Saint enters.
A whiff of peppermint and chocolate follows him, lingering with the crisp cold coming off his coat.
He hangs that red coat on a hook in the entryway directly next to my long jacket, and I’m caught for a moment, staring at the bright red puffer coat beside my olive green one, looking a little too right hanging there together.
“Lumi?”
“Yeah?” I swallow and glance at Saint, realizing I’d been staring a little too long at those two jackets hanging together.
“I’m going to shower quick. Then maybe we could share dinner again.” He scratches at the back of his neck like he’s nervous to ask.
“Dinner?” I pause. “Oh gosh. I hadn’t thought about dinner. I was about to make Christmas cookies.”
“Cookies for dinner?” He arches one thick brow.
“My Nana would approve.” Although my grandparents are long gone, Nana loved any excuse to eat cookies, often having them for breakfast with her coffee.
“Well, you should probably eat something a little heartier. Pizza?” His expression looks sheepish once again.
“Would you like pizza?” I ask, brows pinching at the strange expression on his face.
“We don’t exactly have delivery where I live, so the concept of ordering a pizza to be delivered is kind of a novelty.”
My forehead furrows, eyes wide. What kind of remote place doesn’t deliver a pizza? But then I think of hundreds of places I’d like to visit, and none of them would involve a pizza delivery service nearby.
“Pizza it is then.” I step toward the kitchen while Saint heads for the stairway.
The soft thud of his feet reminds me of my earlier thoughts about the house being too quiet.
The clang of water pipes rustling and the knowledge Saint’s using the shower brings strange comfort that I don’t have time to consider. I have a pizza to order.
When Saint enters the kitchen, his hair is still damp, and the peppermint scent overpowers the chocolate one. To prevent myself from fully sniffing him, I focus on the sugar cookie dough clumping together in a bowl beneath the mixer.
“Whatcha making?” Saint asks, sliding up beside me. My kitchen isn’t large, and just like the other morning, his presence seems to make the space even smaller.
“Sugar cookies. Half the batch I’ll frost and the other half I’ll add crushed peppermint and extra peppermint extract to make them peppermint starbursts.”
Saint leans toward the mixing dough and inhales. “Already smells amazing.”
“It’s just dough.” I laugh, no extra ingredients added yet.
Saint stands to his full height. His chest almost presses against my arm as I face the counter. He rests his hip against the edge, standing close, almost too close.
“I still can’t wait to taste it.”
My gaze leaps to his eyes, noticing them trained on my lips for a second. My mouth suddenly goes dry, and I swallow thickly, glancing back at the whirling dough. Staring at the twirling clump like I’d almost forgotten what I’m doing. What’s my name again?
“Lumi.”
“Yeah,” I exhale, making the word breathless as I turn my head, catching on his lips this time. Watching as they slowly curl. Taking their time. One side hooking a little higher than the other.
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
I don’t think I can be trusted with alcohol around him. Candy cane martinis and men who look like Santa are clearly a danger for me. Then again, I didn’t drink last night, and he still came home with me. I’d invited him in.
“A small glass would be nice.” I’m about to explain where the glasses are kept and the wine opener, but Saint easily helps himself, popping open a bottle of red in the corner of the counter space near my fridge. He pours each of us a small amount in a stemless glass.
Offering me one glass, I shut off the kitchen mixer as Saint holds up his glass. “To holiday housemates.”
I chuckle. “Housemates.” I clink my glass against his, then stare at him as I bring the delicate container to my lips.
Watching him over the rim, I see him watching me back, and I almost choke on the first sip.
His eyes are intense; the bruising beneath them has faded.
That pinprick gleam sparking once like the stars we witnessed as we walked home last night.
As I slowly lower my glass, still holding my gaze on his, he lifts his glass, keeping his eyes on me. He takes a sip, and I watch his throat slowly roll. Mine follows as if the motion is contagious. My mouth is suddenly dry again despite the burst of peppery wine on my tongue.
A sharp buzz causes me to flinch, then giggle, and Saint turns his head toward the front hallway.
“Pizza?” He turns back toward me, excitement filling those dark eyes and turning his cheeks a light rosy pink.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so excited for a delivered pizza.
Before I can respond, he’s turning for the hall and I down the remainder of my wine. The racing of my heart. The pulsing in other places. If him only looking at me has me this turned on, I can only imagine what his touch might do. Or his kiss.
Then again, I shouldn’t imagine either scenario. I might implode if I do because I’m already so worked up. Thankfully, my imagination is brushed aside as Saint enters the kitchen with a piping hot box and sets it on the table-island.
“Pizza. Cookies. And a beautiful housemate.” Saint pauses, looking up at me. “Sounds like a perfect Tuesday.”
At this point, I might not make it to Wednesday. Between compliments and that mischievous gleam in his eyes, I change my mind about him. He isn’t Santa, but the devil. A really attractive one.
Because I’ve already started the dough-making process, we eat standing around the island before I start another batch because the dough needs time to chill in the fridge. The next set of cookies will be for me.
“Russian Tea Cakes?” Saint gives me a hopeful glance after pointing at a bag of walnuts and one of powdered sugar.
“Good guess,” I admit, impressed. “And my favorite.”
Saint slowly smiles. “I consider myself a Christmas cookie aficionado.” His expression turns thoughtful.
“I used to help my mom make them as a kid.” The hard edges of his face soften.
“I’m better at sampling than baking, though.
” He pats his belly, which responds with a sharp clap because those abs are tight as I witnessed the other morning when his shirt rose up, exposing a trail of hair leading downward and—
“Well, I’m happy to let you sample my cookies.”
Our eyes lock at the invitation, innuendo not intended but interpreted underneath. Am I willing to let him have a bite of me? I can’t even remember the last time someone had a taste of me, down there, where I’m hot and damp and desperate for a little attention.
That bright green toy he gave me might get used after all.
On that note, I look away from him and assign him the job of chopping walnuts.
“Have you ever wanted to go to Russia?” he asks me, remembering I told him I wanted to go everywhere.
“Yes. Because I’ve heard it’s a beautiful country. But Europe is the first location on my list. London. Paris. Rothenburg ob der Tauber.” The last one I infuse with the worst imitation of a German accent, but I still smile around the name.
“That’s rather specific.” Saint smiles.
“I’ve read it’s the ultimate Christmas town.”
“I don’t know. From what I’ve seen of Hideaway Harbor so far, this looks like the ultimate Christmas town.”
I laugh. “Well, you haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen the harbor tree.”
“The harbor tree?” Saint questions. “You mean the big one in your town square?”
“Oh no, we have another one. We take our Christmas trees very seriously around here.”
Saint glances over his shoulder while still holding the chopping knife. “I don’t see a tree in here.”
I shrug. “Well, I don’t know if I’m going to bother getting one. With Danny not coming home and all . . .”
Saint gives me a questioning look. Then it passes into compassion. And I don’t want to turn our pleasant evening into another pity party centered around me.
“So, what about you? Tell me where you’ve been. Some place really special or magical.”
The next few minutes pass with Saint explaining incredible locations from all over the world that he’s visited. And all the while, we work in tandem, like a team, circling one another like we’re well-practiced at sharing the small space of my kitchen.
He chops walnuts. I mix wet ingredients.
He adds the walnuts. I stir in the dry mixture.
Then we each take turns forming the dough into small balls and placing them on the baking sheets.
With the timer set, I turn toward Saint, prepared to ask him if he’d like a little more wine. But as I face him, he reaches for my forehead, near my hairline.
“You’ve got a little . . .” He traces his finger along the border of skin and hair and then continues along the side of my cheek. “Powdered sugar in your hair.”
I could question how that happened, but I swiped at my loose hair a time or two with the back of my hand while my palms were doughy and fingers covered in powdered sugar.
“Messy baker,” I whisper, still trying to catch my breath as the stroke of his finger lingers along the lines of my face.
He smiles, then assumes the role of refreshing our wine glasses. Only a few short minutes pass before we remove the first set of pans, and the warm cookies need to be rolled in confectioners’ sugar.
We work quickly, whimpering and hissing at the heat coming off the hot treat, while we attempt to cool it with a dusting of powdery sugar. Once finally clear of the pan, Saint grabs my hand and brings it to his mouth.
“Here,” he says, keeping his eyes on me as he sucks at the tip of my finger, cooling the sizzle of heat lingering, while at the same time starting a new crackle and spark.
The kindling already buzzing all evening as we worked around one another.
A flame shoots through me like a flare gun shot into the night.
An SOS cry for help. Or in my case, a whimper of need.
Deep-rooted desire to be taken to the kitchen floor and experience this man.
This should not be happening. I should not be reacting to him so fiercely, so fast. I’ve known him less than three days. My attraction to him doesn’t make sense.
The Santa vibe should be a distraction. But everything in my body says put me on your lap and add me to the naughty list.
“Thank you,” I whisper as he pulls my finger from his mouth and takes my thumb next, concentrating on the two fingers we used most to roll cookies.
He only holds the tip between his lips, but the salacious swirl of his tongue against the end of my finger has me wondering about other lengths on him and how they’d fit inside me.
This is so messed up, and yet my body refuses to pull away from him. If anything, I want to be closer. Press up against him and wrap around him and—
“Better?” he asks, keeping his eyes on mine as he removes my thumb and blows on the moistened tip.
“Yeah.” The word is a breathless exhale, and the opposite of how I feel.
My insides are a churning volcano, ripe for eruption, from the single act of him sucking on my finger.