Eighteen
Winter
The morning comes far too quickly, which is a blessing and a curse. I’m thankful for it because it means I’ll get to see my dad again shortly, but I could have done with some extra sleep.
We take turns showering and getting ready. When Saint slips into the bathroom for his turn, I take on the responsibility of making breakfast.
I turn off the stove burner and finish plating the food when Saint walks into the kitchen fully dressed and with wet hair dripping. I grab a paper towel, then use it to dry off some droplets rolling down his neck.
He smiles brightly like I’m something special, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. On one hand, I’m a little uncomfortable. It’s way too soon for a define-the-relationship talk or anything like that, but the way he looks at me makes my stomach flutter.
“Thanks for looking out for me,” he says.
“I wouldn’t want you getting your shirt all wet and catching pneumonia when we leave.” Clearing my throat, I pull the now-damp paper towel away from him and go to retreat, wanting to put distance between us. I only get a step away before he tugs me back into his space.
He plants a kiss on my lips, and even though it’s chaste, it feels like gravity has changed. Something is different between us, and despite knowing my former self would hate me for it, I want to see where things will go.
Once he backs away from me, he grabs the plates I just filled and walks them to the table. I trail behind him with two cups of coffee.
“Thought you might want one too.” I set one of them in front of him.
“Yeah, I can use one. I would have liked a few more hours of sleep since we didn’t get home until late.”
He digs into the bacon and eggs I cooked up while I sip my coffee, watching him from the corner of my eye. The bob of his throat when he swallows shouldn’t do something for me, but I can’t break eye contact with it.
I turn for a second to put my cup down on the table, and when I look back, I’m met with Saint’s knowing eyes. The smirk that accompanies his look tells me he knows I was checking him out, but thankfully, he doesn’t call me out on it.
Despite all our animosity during our childhood and teen years, I’ve always secretly found him attractive. We might have something going on now, but I’m not ready to talk about it. I need time to process the change in my feelings toward him.
Changing the subject, I talk around a bite of bacon, “I checked in with Cypress before starting breakfast. He and Douglas will stay home when we go to the hospital. Cy said he’ll check out Dad’s calendar and see what’s scheduled, then they’ll get some work done around here.”
“Sounds like a plan. Maybe before we leave, you should get an outfit together for your mom. She probably wants to get out of yesterday’s clothes.”
“Good idea.”
I grab a bag and load it with a change of clothes for Mom and a couple of hygiene items. Once that’s done, I put on my boots and coat and head to the front door, where Saint is waiting for me.
About five minutes into the silent drive, Saint turns his head in my direction. The mischievous grin on his face is the only warning I have before he starts talking.
“I’m probably going to have some new bruises decorating my legs today.”
My brows furrow. What a weird thing to say, and I’m not sure how to respond to that. “Why’s that?”
His smirk grows larger. I’m not even sure how that’s possible. “Anyone ever tell you that you kick in your sleep?”
My arms cross in front of me, and indignantly, I grit out, “I do not!”
“Yeah, that’s why I needed the coffee this morning. I don’t normally drink the stuff. Your pretty little feet kept kicking my shins throughout the night.”
“I don’t believe you.” I huff before turning away to look out the window.
Trying my best to pretend he’s a liar. He doesn’t know it, but since moving to New York, I only had one semi-serious boyfriend.
That boyfriend happened to stay overnight once, and he told me the same thing.
But I do my best to act offended and pretend it’s false information.
Before I know it, he’s pulling the car into a visitor spot in the hospital parking lot. I realize then that I’ve been extremely nervous when we first left the house. Arguing with Saint was the only thing that stopped me from worrying.
I close my door and stare at him over the hood of the SUV.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
Now he’s the one pretending not to know what I’m talking about.
“Do what?” he asks, feigning confusion.
“You distracted me.”
He rounds the car and stops about a foot away from me. Somehow, the distance feels too close and too far away at the same time.
Bending down, he pulls up his pant leg. “You really did kick me,” he says, sounding wounded.
I glance down at the leg showing. At first, I’m distracted by his calf muscles on display. I haven’t gotten to see grown-up Saint’s legs until now, since it’s wintertime, but holy dang. He’s got very defined calves, and I would love to see more of his legs.
Then I remember the purpose of this leg reveal, and I move my eyes to his shin that I supposedly kicked.
I scrutinize his leg, pretending not to see anything.
“Nothing there.”
“Look, the bruise is right here.” He moves some leg hair to the side and points to what has to be a bruise the size of a dime.
Not ready to admit I might have kicked him, I roll my eyes before huffing out, “You probably did that to yourself. Lord knows you’re always walking into stuff, Holly.
Case in point, I saw you walk into the doorframe the other day at the shop.
” I purposely used the nickname from our childhood, knowing he never liked it when I shortened his last name from Holland to Holly.
I start walking, and based on his footsteps gaining on me, I know he’s following.
“Whatever you say, princess.”
He scoops up my hand in his as we head toward the main building.