Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“You did come to the right place then,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Rosehill Pines is trying to win some kind of Christmas town award, so they always go all out. We could… go see the Christmas market next week if you’d like?”
Saint’s eyes light up as if I’ve promised to suck his dick once we leave the restaurant. “I would like that. I used to really love this time of year. But now it’s… spoiled,” he says, digging into his food.
“Maybe you just need to make new memories?” I say, half convincing myself. Because maybe that’s what I need to climb out my own hole, and I’ve been reluctant to admit it.
Saint exhales and catches my gaze for long enough to get my body as hot as a radiator in the middle of winter. “Maybe this year I can do that. Who knows?”
With me? I hope it’s with me. I hope that if this isn’t a date, then maybe we could have one as the days pass. If I’m frugal with my spending, maybe I could treat him to something at the Christmas market. Or take him hunting and wow him with my marksmanship?
The conversation flows, as does the wine, and by the time we get dessert, it feels as though I’ve known him for weeks not a day. He urges me to try the cheesecake off his plate, and I end up feeding him a spoonful of ice cream.
This is either a date, or something gay men do with friends, which I wouldn’t know since I don’t have any friends, gay or otherwise.
It’s late when we leave the restaurant, but we’re both tipsy, and the Christmas lights somehow become even more fun when he points out how some of the lamp poles look uncannily like dicks from certain angles. This is already the best night I’ve had all year, and it’s not yet over.
“How can you walk around with your neck bare like that?” Saint asks as we stroll down the empty street, toward our apartment building. I want this date or non-date to last forever so I keep my pace slow.
I shrug, smiling at the massive glittery snowflakes hanging across the street. They don’t even seem so tacky right now. “I was in a hurry in the morning and forgot. It’s fine.”
Saint frowns and pulls on his dark brown scarf, freeing it from under his coat. I stall, because a part of me already knows what he intends, but when he faces me and puts the silky-smooth wool around my neck, I’m still too shocked to speak.
“There. Can’t have you losing your voice. I like how it sounds,” he adds with a little smirk.
Behind him, snow dances around a streetlight, and there are white flakes on his shoulders and uncovered hair, shimmering like silver dust. When something in his gaze changes, I lean in without thinking. Or is it the gentle tug of the scarf that pulls me closer?
It doesn’t matter, because all I can think of are his lips on mine. Soft, warm, inviting.
The kiss is only a peck on the mouth, but before he pulls back, he gives my top lip a quick lick that sends sparks all the way down my body. I’m half hard just from that gesture, and I find it hard to breathe, hard to focus.
He kisses me, and now wraps the scarf around my neck for good measure.
This is a date. This is most definitely a date.
Saint chuckles, looking around, but it’s late, and we’re the only ones out here, as if the whole town is a diorama depicting our first day together—Stop! Once again, I’m letting my imagination run rampant. For all I know, this might be our only day together but I’m going to treasure it in my mind forever.
“Well… I guess I should walk you home now,” Saint tells me, his hands so warm I can feel them even through my thick jacket.
My home? His home? To the door? Will I be brave enough to invite him in?
Those are questions for when we get there. For now, I smile and savor the magical moment.
Chapter 7
Rowan
I have never expected to experience the butterflies I’ve so often read about, but despite it being December, and the snow falling all around us, butterflies come to life deep inside me, dancing at every word from Saint’s mouth.
We talk about the TV show I’ve been watching, about Saint experimenting with a new type of tomato in his pasta sauce, even about tomorrow’s weather, and the conversation flows with ease like waves in the sea, back and forth. I can’t remember feeling this comfortable with anyone. This must be what people mean when they say they clicked with someone.
Every now and then, our hands brush, and it sends a shiver down my spine. The scarf wrapped around my neck smells fresh, like newly cut grass, yet with a dark, masculine undertone that makes my senses overreact to every sensation.