Chapter 16
Maybe it’s because I slept more soundly last night than I have in… well, longer than I can remember, but my brain is taking more time than normal to comprehend what I just heard.
For some reason, hearing Saint’s best friend’s a mechanic is setting off tiny alarm bells in my head.
I guess it makes sense Slater wouldn't be able to fix the issues he had in Salem, and he wouldn't want to drive all this way in a van that could potentially break down halfway home, but it’s weird he didn’t mention Slater’s job at all in the past year.
Usually, customers like to brag about their mechanic friends to get a deal, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised Saint isn’t like other customers.
He never has been.
Still, I could have towed his van back here instead of making him come all the way back.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do when I woke up and heard more than one voice in the kitchen. I figured it was just Ruby, but then I heard a deep timbre I didn’t recognize.
I didn’t know if Saint wanted me to come out and meet whoever was here, or if I was supposed to stay in his room until he came to check on me. I would have been content to lie in his bed, breathing in his cinnamon and vanilla scent, but the smell of coffee tempted me to get up.
I started to second-guess my decision when everyone’s attention turned to me as soon as I opened the door. I don’t want to embarrass him since I don’t have any makeup on, and I’m wearing his clothes. I don’t want his friends to think I’m frumpy or unkempt.
Any worry is quickly squashed by the way Saint rushes around the kitchen counter, wiping his hands on his apron with the goofiest grin on his face.
“Let the poor girl get coffee before you start flirting with her, Jesus. Mikey, how do you like your coffee?”
“Cream and sugar,” Saint answers for me. “But I also have sugar cookie coffee creamer, if you want to try some. I make it myself, and I have to admit, it’s pretty good.”
“I think I will try it, thank you.”
“Have a seat. Do you like omelets? I have some veggies and ham. I can whip one up for you.” He pulls out a barstool and helps me on. Slater settles on the stool next to me, and Ruby slides me a cup of coffee, which I take with a quiet “thanks.”
“Why are you so hospitable to her but not me? I’m the best friend, and I came here to help,” Slater grumbles, but it holds no heat.
“Mikey is Saint’s special guest, and I’m trying to convince her to stay for the festival to hang out with Stell and me.
You are an uninvited nuisance,” Ruby says breezily, putting a tray of what looks like danishes in the fridge.
My heart beats a little faster at being referred to as Saint’s special guest. What would it be like to drop the “special guest” and simply be “Saint’s? ”
Do I want to be his?
Saint ignores Slater’s comment. “Omelet, Mikey?”
“Um, sure. I can make it though. It looks like you’ve got a lot of work to do.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s not a problem. Are there any vegetables you don’t like?”
“I’m really okay with—” I cut myself off when I see the stern expression on Saint’s face and the warning in his eyes. “I’m not a huge fan of brussel sprouts.”
With a nod, Saint turns his back to us and gets to work chopping onions, peppers, mushrooms, and avocado.
I watch with rapt attention at the way his body moves beneath the confines of his T-shirt.
Memories of feeling those muscles shift under my thighs when he was between my legs last night flash in my brain, and I have to look away before lust consumes me.
“So, Mikey, are you sticking around for the festival? You’ll break Ruby’s heart if you say no.” Slater plucks an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter and takes a bite.
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly. The storm cleared, and even though Merv told me I didn’t need to come back to work until Monday, I feel bad taking the day off.
Plus, I don’t want to be in Saint’s way or have him worrying about me all day.
I know Ruby wants me here, but I’m hesitant to make friends.
What if they get to know me and don’t like me?
Ruby plops a square of plastic wrapped dough on the counter. “You need to stay! I spoke with Stella last night, and she’s so eager to meet you.”
“I could stay for the parade and part of the festival. I don’t have a dress or anything nice enough for the dance though,” I hedge, hoping it appeases her.
“Stella owns a photography studio and has more clothes than she knows what to do with. I’m sure she has something you could borrow,” Slater suggests. “Besides, you don’t want to abandon this poor guy on his birthday.”
“Oh, shit! Happy birthday, Saint.” I feel awful he’s making me breakfast on his birthday.
Saint looks at me over his shoulder and gives me his signature lopsided grin. “Thanks, Mikey. And before you ask, no, you can’t take over. Let me cook for you. It’s my birthday, and I can do what I want.”
“Yeah, Saint gets what he wants. Though if I had to guess, I’d say he got a very good birthday present already, seeing as you walked out of his room in his clothes,” Slater interjects.
“Slater Madison, I swear if you scare my new friend away because you’re a sex obsessed ass, I will never serve you lunch again.” Ruby points her rolling pin at him menacingly, and even I’m a little scared for him. For such a short woman, she can be intimidating.
Slater doesn’t seem at all affected by the threat. If anything, he seems to like it. “So feisty this morning, Ruby.”
Saint slides me a plate with a steaming omelet oozing with melted cheese, then sets one in front of Slater. “Give your mouth something else to do other than piss off my sister, yeah?” he mumbles.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Slater sing-songs, rubbing his hands together.
I pick up the fork, feeling Saint watching me intently as I slice through the fluffy eggs and perfectly sautéed vegetables. I bring a bite to my mouth and have to hold in a moan when the flavors hit my tongue.
My usual breakfast consists of instant oatmeal or those meals where I just crack an egg in and put it in the microwave. Sometimes, if I’m up early enough, I treat myself to a breakfast sandwich at the coffee shop down the street.
This omelet is like eating a savory, delicious cloud. I’ll crave this right along with everything else Saint’s fed me.
“This is the best omelet I’ve ever had,” I tell him honestly. Slater mumbles something in agreement, but it’s garbled because his mouth is full.
I swear I can see the pride in Saint’s eyes. “Good. Now, eat up. We have a long day ahead of us.”
After we finished breakfast, I helped Ruby roll out and cut sugar cookies, then scooped lava cake batter into their individual tins.
Slater sat on his stool and added commentary until he had to leave around eight to finish setting up the floats.
He took a few of the finished pastries with him, promising to leave them in the bakery fridge for later.
Once everything was folded, mixed, or flattened, we loaded up what we could in the back of Ruby’s car. Before leaving she make me promise to meet her at the café to watch the parade with her and Stella. Saint headed to his room to shower and get ready.
I guess I’m staying after all.
I take the clothes Ruby brought last night into the guest room and lay them on the bed, anxiety swirling in my stomach as I look at them. I’m hesitant to change out of Saint’s clothes because I don’t want to look weird wearing Stella’s clothes.
Everything is brand new with tags, so it helps ease some of my worries about taking clothes someone wears all the time.
My eyes trail over to the red lace panties—a thong—and matching bralette. Did Stella mean to put these in here? I don’t think I’d ever give something like this to someone I’ve never met.
I can’t deny I’m curious about what it would look and feel like. I’ve never worn a thong. Or lace underwear, for that matter. It’s not exactly practical when I’m wearing coveralls and sweating all day at work. I can’t be picking a wedgie when I’m trying to hold up a tire.
“It’s just underwear, Mikey. You can’t go commando all day,” I whisper to myself, stripping off Saint’s sweats and shirt.
I take a deep breath and begrudgingly slide the underwear up my legs, and settling them onto my hips.
Surprisingly, they’re a perfect fit. The sheer lace is buttery soft against my skin, and it’s not as uncomfortable as I expected it to be.
I slide the bralette over my head and lift my boobs into the cups, shocked they’re not spilling over.
Slowly, I turn around with my eyes closed and face the standing mirror in the corner of the room. After giving myself a little pep talk, I peek one eye open and scan my body.
I’ve always worn practical, comfortable underwear. I never felt the draw to pretty, lacy things because it never meshed with my lifestyle. My ex bought me a few pieces of lingerie, but the lace was scratchy, and everything seemed like it was too small, so I never wore it.
Growing up with a single dad and working in a male-dominated field, I’ve never let myself lean into my feminine side. Looking at my reflection, I wonder if there’s a way to find a better balance.
Disbelief and awe have my eyes flying open wide. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like me, she’s…
Beautiful.
My hair is still in its natural waves after showering yesterday, spilling over my shoulders.
My body has always been freckled, and I got made fun of for them, but I can’t find it in me to hate them right now.
Have my lips always been this pink? Have my cheeks always looked flush?
Or is this what being with Saint does to me?