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“Sure. Other than that racket. Shall we see what’s going on out there?” Saint rises, gesturing to the window. I nod, watching as Saint crosses to peer outside. His lounge pants are riding low on his hips and the view distracts me from following. “Oh.”
I’m not sure how to interpret that flat exclamation, an echo of Carl’s earlier, so I walk up behind him and take in the scene. Nick is in front of Carl, singing Christmas carols and… “Is that a snow machine?”
“Yes, it appears to be.” Saint shakes his head, but there’s a bemused smile on his lips. “The fucker went all out to win him back. Next level apology.”
I watch Nick groveling out in the fresh snow. I can’t hold back a laugh at the two of them out there. It’s like a scene out of the sappy movies Carl loves. I clap a hand over my mouth to cover my reaction. It’s totally over the top and ridiculous, but Carl’s huge smile says he is devouring every corny drop with gusto.
“That’s good, right? This is the sort of romance Carl wants?”
“It is.” Saint nods. He’s been calling Nick every name in the book for breaking Carl’s heart ever since I arrived last night, but he seems to be thawing toward the man now. “We should clear out so they can, uh, make up.”
I snort at his delicate wording. “Good call.”
We turn toward Carl’s front door, missing whatever happens next with the tableau outside between Carl and Nick.
“Um, is it okay if I crash at your place until a decent hour?” It’s super awkward to be the one to ask, but I’m not ready to face the echoing emptiness of home, and I’m still tired.
“Sure.” Saint slings an arm around my shoulders. He gives me a squeeze and kisses my temple. “Stay until the power is back at your place. Or at least until you have to pick up the kids.”
I grab my bag, heart tripping at the thought of bringing my kids back to his place. Sharing the holiday with this man who helps me shoulder my burdens and gives me space to lay them down to rest. That’s asking too much though. We let ourselves out to observe quietly as Carl gazes at Nick with stars in his eyes. They kiss under the lightly falling machine-made snow and Carl looks blissful as his boyfriend holds his hand and they turn toward his home as one.
Saint teases him, but Carl takes it in stride. I congratulate the lovebirds. It’s weird to watch a grand gesture like that from the sidelines. I know it’s an expression of love between those two. Nick knew it would delight Carl, and it did. But I don’t think I’d be comfortable with that sort of display.
It would feel like an emotional manipulation to me after everything I’ve been through for years with Trevor. It’s a relief knowing without even having to ask that Saint wouldn’t put me in that sort of high pressure position.
Is that what he means when he says he doesn’t date? That he won’t do the sort of grand gesture we just witnessed? Because I’m not sure how to tell him how much I appreciate what we have. I wish I had the words to ask him for more. Not morethanwhat we have now. Moreofus. More nights in his bed. More texts. More time.
Saint shepherds me into his house and I let myself enjoy having his arm around me, possessing but not possessive.
“Bed or breakfast?” Saint asks through a yawn. He scratches idly at his belly and I’m tempted to tell himbed. To touch and be touched and forget all the things we aren’t to each other in favor of reaffirming everything we are.
“Want a little something to warm us up before we go back to bed?” I suggest. The snow was chilly, fake or not, and I can practically taste his mulled cider. These past few weeks he’s started offering it to me at every Thursday visit. The spices he uses warm me to my toes, even once the piping hot beverage cools while we talk.
Saint nods and goes to grab a jug of cider from the fridge. I sit at his counter to watch him, admiring the way his shirt rides up to show a hint of his back. The skin just above his ass tempts me when he reaches for the tin of neatly portioned out packets of mulling spices from the top shelf. I must make some sound that reveals how much I appreciate the view. Saint glances over his shoulder to wink at me before he pulls out a pot and pours in a mix of juice and whole spices over low heat.
“Fancy,” I tease him. He’s the only person I know—other than my gran when I was a kid—who doesn’t just use the little powder packets from the store to make his cider. His spice blend is fucking amazing. It tastes like childhood and Christmas and brings me back to a time when I believed in the impossible.
“Nothing but the best for you, babe.” Saint winks at me. The endearment wallops me right in the chest. It’s one he normally reserves for Carl. Everyone else is usuallydarling, or sometimesdear.
“Thanks,” I say, mulling over how he makes me feel as the spices simmer on the stove. Saint busies himself getting out cookies from a holiday tin.
“Carl brought these over from Miss Tina’s cookie swap. There’s all different flavors,” he explains as he offers the open tin to me. Is he nervous?
I look through the assortment and select what looks like a rum ball and a little gingerbread dinosaur iced in vibrantly colored stripes. I wiggle the dinosaur in front of me. “This is almost too cute to eat.”
“Uh oh, looks like a comet is coming right for it!” Saint lifts the rum ball into the air. He holds it threateningly over the dinosaur before nudging the other cookie toward my mouth. “Run for cover, dino.”
I laugh, and let myself indulge in the silliness, nibbling at the dinosaur he holds to my lips.
“That’s right, go inside that perfectly safe cave, little dinosaur.” Saint winks at me and I chomp on the cookie. The sweetness and warm spices are delicious. Saint’s smile as he watches me indulge makes my heart beat faster. I lick my lips for any lingering traces of icing. He’s staring at me so intently that there has to be a reason.
“Oh no! The comet is still coming right for that little dude.” Saint holds up the second cookie for me to bite it. And I do, even though it’s a little ridiculous to let the man feed me. He’s such a giant goofball, but it can’t cover how much he cares. I hate the idea of him cutting himself off from people out of some misplaced fear he can’t be enough. It’s ridiculous.
“Why don’t you date?” I blurt before I can fully think it through. I can only blame being sleep-addled for that question slipping past my filters.
Saint pulls back, fingers clenching around the second bite of the rum ball. He stares resolutely over at the simmering pot. As though it suddenly requires close supervision.
“We’ve been over this, Angel. I’m aromantic. I don’t dofalling in love.” He puts air quotes around that last bit.
