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“Last I checked, friends with benefits are still a type of friend. Friends check on each other after a bad day.”
“I told you I was fine. You didn’t have to swoop in and save me. I’m not your good deed.” I don’t want his pity in bed or out of it, though I’m not tired enough to spew that last bit at him mere steps from my workplace.
The idea he might see me as a charity case is like ice in my veins. I shiver. But that’s not really fair; he’s never given me a reason to think that.
Saint is just generous to a fault and a gesture that seems huge to me is probably pocket change to him. Thinking back to the sliding scale rate that he charged me for his legal services, yeah. My entire shoestring budget is roughly what he spends on those shiny loafers of his. Or the tailored suits I love seeing on his floor almost as much as on his body.
I’m in a bad mood, dead on my feet. I miss my kids, and I’m going to say or do something I regret if I stay here, so I turn toward my car. Saint grabs my wrist.
My pulse thunders loud enough to drown out the sounds of cars on the nearby road, and I tense for whatever happens next. The pain of a crushing grip trying to force me into compliance doesn’t come. Saint just holds me gently in place. The second I jerk my arm away, he lets me go, holding up his hands defensively. I’m so tired.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
“Just to make sure you’re okay.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“I can see that. Want to come over and watch movies?”
I snort. “You aren’t going to offer to run me a bubble bath and massage my aching feet?”
“Do you want me to offer you that?” His lips quirk up into an almost smile.
“No. You made it pretty clear you don’t do the whole boyfriend thing.” The bitter words slip out before I can stop myself or think them through. They hit like a sucker punch and Saint’s wry smile slips from his face like it was never there. His shoulders—so strong they always seem up to carrying any burden—slump. Shit. I hurt him.
I stare at him wide-eyed, wishing I could take it back. That isn’t even what I want from him, so why throw it in his face? But I know why. He’s too perfect and I need to remind myself that this isn’t going to end with him sweeping me off my feet like some sort of fairy tale.
“I don’t do romance,” Saint murmurs, voice carefully measured. “But I can absolutely take care of you if you spell out what you need from me as a person who cares about you.”
“And not a person who just wants in my pants?” I could kick myself for shoving away the best offer I’m going to get for someone to at least go through the motions of taking care of me. It’s like my mouth has a mind of its own. But somehow, I must hit the right balance between acerbic and teasing.
“Angel, darling, don’t take this the wrong way, but I hardly need to sweep you off your feet for that.” Saint smiles again, hurt, but still holding out the metaphorical hand of friendship. I want to clasp it and never let go.
“Ouch, right in the feels.” I press a hand to my heart in a dramatic gesture to mask just how close to old wounds his words hit, like I hurt him. Insults hurled at me in anger. I’m allowed to enjoy sex. I am. And he’s allowed to set his own boundaries.
“Sorry, did that hit a nerve?” Saint asks, with so much sincerity I’m guilty all over again for my remarks about him.
I nod. He reaches for me again, gently rubbing his thumb along my jaw.
“Ah, my bad. I like that you enjoy sex, Angel. I enjoy it too. Nothing wrong with that. Just don’t expect me to come up with all that lovey-dovey grand gesture stuff on my own. Carl’s the one who said you might need some TLC tonight. He’s the one you want if you’re into that romance shit.” Saint tries to make that sound exasperated, but his voice and his smile both go all soft. Those warm crinkles around his eyes deepen when he talks about Carl. Love. That’s what it looks like when someone really loves another person.
It’s not something I can have. I blew my chances at that sort of sweeping love story when I thought I could have it with Trevor. Well, I might not get romance, but I got my kids out of all my terrible life choices.
They’re completely worth everything. Even if I’m struggling to keep the food in their bellies and a roof over their heads. And that reminds me that Owen needs new shoes for tae kwon do and Meg is going to need to order dance recital costumes soon.
Fingers crossed it’s a color that won’t require buying new shoes to match. Or DIYing a dye job. Last time my fingers were a weird shade of gangrenous chartreuse for weeks and I’m convinced it didn’t do my tips any favors. I don’t have time to wallow in self-pity. But I could use a friend.
“I’m sorry too. You’re a good friend, Saint. What movie were you thinking?”
“Have you seenRising Storm?” Saint’s face lights up with excitement. “It’s that new superhero flick set in Toronto.”
“Sure, so long as I don’t have to follow a complex plot, I’m down for pretty special effects.”
“Perfect. You can take that bubble bath while I make popcorn, if you want?”
“That sounds really nice, Saint. Thanks.”
“I’ll meet you at my place, then.” He smiles at me, melting the ice around my heart that little bit more as he turns toward his car.
