“Born, raised, and always lived in Salem. What about you?”
“I was born in the town next to Cupid’s Cove since it has the closest hospital, but I’ve lived there my whole life. Do you like Salem? Have you ever wanted to move somewhere else?”
“I like Salem. I’ve never really felt the pull to move away. It’s familiar, and Kelly’s there, so it wouldn’t make sense for me to move. Have you ever wanted to move?”
“That’s fair. I moved away for college but decided I liked living there and haven’t really considered moving away. What’s your favorite type of music?”
“My dad instilled his love of classic 80s rock in me. Def Leppard, KISS, and Dire Straights to name a few. What’s yours?”
“I’m a big pop fan. Anything with a bouncy beat. I love the pop princesses. What was your dream job as a kid?”
My face heats. “Mechanic. Was yours baker?”
Saint chuckles, the sound filling the cab of my truck and sending goosebumps across my skin. “Destined to be a mechanic from the start, huh? No, actually. I wanted to be an author. Even tried writing a book once, but it wasn’t all I had imagined it would be, so I gave up the dream.”
“Ah, well, sometimes dreams aren’t always as glamorous as they appear. What’s your favorite thing to bake?”
“I love the familiarity and simplicity of bread, but I equally love the complexity of macarons.”
He got a phone call at the end of that conversation, just as soon as he had service again. I’m assuming by the low murmur of the voice I can hear on the other line, it’s his friend. From Saint’s side of the conversation, it sounds like he’s checking to see how far away we are.
Every answer he gives makes this hulking man even more endearing. There are layers of complexity beneath his flannel, and I find myself wanting to peel them back until I’m sure to find an ooey gooey center.
Just as I suspected, my silly crush is growing, expanding in my chest and threatening to consume me.
It’s Saint’s turn to ask me a question. He rubs his thumb along his beard as he contemplates. “Is Mikey short for something?”
“Yes, actually. It’s short for Mikelle.” I hope he doesn't ask any follow-up questions.
I should know better.
“Mikelle,” he practically whispers, like he’s feeling every letter. I rarely hear my full name, and it sends a shiver down my spine hearing it slip from his lips. “That’s beautiful. How did you get the nickname Mikey?”
“My dad called me Mikey for as long as I can remember. I was always his ‘Mikey girl.’ When I was ten, I asked him why he never called me by my full name, and he told me it reminded him of Mom, and sometimes the reminder hurt. Her name was Michelle, and Kelly is her best friend, so when I was born, Mom wanted to combine the two, and Mikelle happened.” I chuckle a little. Kelly always jokes that even if she’s not my biological mom, she’s part of me because of my name. “Mikey stuck as a nickname, and everyone started calling me Mikey. Kelly only calls me Mikelle when she’s tipsy.”
“What hap—never mind. I love it, for what it's worth. Do you mind if people call you Mikelle?” I know what he was going to ask. It’s the typical follow-up when people find out about my mom.
“Like I said, hardly anyone does, so I don’t really know, but I don’t think I’d mind. You can… you can ask the other question. I’ll count it as a follow-up.”
I glance over just in time to see his throat bob with a swallow.
“What happened?”
“My mom died when I was six. She had an aneurysm. I was at school, and I vaguely remember not getting picked up on time and having to wait in the office while they called my parents. Kelly came to get me and took me to the hospital, but by the time we got there, it was too late. She was gone before my dad even got her to the ER. He came home early so we could walk home from school together and found her—” My breath hitches in mychest, and I clamp my lips together as I blink my eyes to clear the threatening tears.
A large, warm hand gently lands on my shoulder. Saint rubs his thumb in a soothing circular motion. “I’m so sorry, Mikey. It was inconsiderate of me to ask, especially while you’re driving.”
I give him a watery smile and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Most of the time I’m fine, but sometimes grief creeps in, and I miss her, especially now with my dad gone, too.”
“I can relate,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
“You lost your mom, too, right?”
“I did. Both of my parents, actually, but my mom’s passing hit the hardest. My dad was kind of a deadbeat asshole. He left when I was six and Ruby was three, and we only saw him once every few years, so I didn’tknowhim. He was driving drunk and ended up wrapping his car around a tree when I was seventeen. It’s hard to mourn a man I didn’t even know. My mom, though, had pancreatic cancer. They weren’t able to catch it in time. We had two years from her diagnosis to her last day, six years ago.”
My heart cracks wide open at the melancholy in his tone. I wish I weren’t driving so I could wrap him in a hug.
“Cupid’s Cove rallied around us,” he continues, “and her last days were filled with joy and laughter. She passed away surrounded by her favorite people in a town she loved with her whole being. The town adored Love Valentine, and her celebration of life lasted an entire week.”
