Convincing Nolan to bring me here had been harder than anticipated, which was why I didn’t ask my dad; he’d have stuck around. If Saint doesn’t want me to stay now, I don’t really have a way home, but I stick to my spot on the steps, tucked into the corner of the railing, waiting silently as he pulls grocery bags from the back seat and begins walking towards the house.
“Lake, why are you sitting on the step?”
I guess he wasn’t as unaware as I thought.
“You looked pensive. I didn’t want to get in the way.”
He scoffs and narrows his gaze before setting down the bags and squeezing in tight next to me.
With a gentle finger on my chin, he turns my head to face him, asking, “Have I not been clear enough with you?”
My eyebrows crease in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“My life revolves around you, sweet haven, and only you.” Leaning closer, our lips touch, and he lingers while stating, “For now.”
That’s even more confusing until I register the heat in his stare. This Saint, the one who reveals so many sides to himself, is everything I ever wanted. He’s never been this open about his needs and desires, not until the cabin in Indiana.
“You mean children…?” My whisper is like a scream because the world around us goes silent in the intense moment.
“If you ever want them.” His correction steals my breath.
“You’re so quick to base decisions on what I might want; what about what you want, Saint?” He frowns as if it never occurred to him. Maybe it hasn’t.
“My needs are pretty fucking simple…” He pauses, waiting for me to clue in, but I don’t. “The only thing in the world I need is you, Lake. That’s it, and I’ll die a happy man.”
“Me.” Repeating the word doesn’t make it any easier to understand. “What if I’m not enough?” Because how can I be?
He doesn’t answer me; instead, he grips my hand, grabs the bags, and leads me inside after unlocking the door. I follow along to the kitchen, the aromas making my stomach grumble and my mouth water for a taste.
Garlic, oregano, pasta sauce, and rich butter.
“Whatever that is, it smells amazing.” Our eyes meet as Saint places the bags on the counter and moves to a crockpot by the stove that I missed. Lifting the lid, he stirs, then brings the spoon over to offer me a taste. After blowing on it, I open for him, and he puts the tip into my mouth. My eyes close as flavor explodes on my tongue. “God, that’s good.”
The murky green in his eyes deepens, and his face softens. It pleases him that I enjoy the fruits of his labor. Seeing Saint’s happiness is unlike anyone else. It’s not an outward display with a smile, but more so, the way he watches me, the way he relaxes slightly, and doesn’t appear poised for battle.
“I was going to make those garlic knots you like and brownies for dessert. Do you want to help?”
Shocked doesn’t begin to cover how I feel.
“You bake?” Making cookies is the extent of my baking knowledge. Though helping Mom is something I’ve done most of my life.
“I learned.” He’s sheepish, and the tips of his ears tinge red with embarrassment.
“I’d love to, but I wouldn’t know where to begin with the garlic knots.” He grins and starts unpacking the groceries. Seeing the boxed brownies, I grab that and read the instructions. “I could do this while you do the knots?” I offer instead. It seems simple enough.
“Bowls are here, fridge is there, and utensils are in the drawer next to the stove.” He points everything out for me as he bends down, opens a cupboard door in the island, and slides out a stand mixer attached to a movable shelf.
“Whoa,” I chuckle. “You mean business.”
“Mom had a lot of the design input when I redid the kitchen after buying the place. I was skeptical of this at first, but I like the convenience.”
Watching Saint work around his kitchen, a peacefulness overtakes him that he likely doesn’t realize is so evident.
“You like to cook and bake?” I’ve known the man my entire life, yet it’s like we just met and are learning everything there is to know about one another.
“When it means nourishing you, yes.” He pierces me with such a fervent, possessive stare that my breath catches.
Unsure how to respond, I continue watching Saint as he mixes the dough before taking it out to knead it by hand. His big, strong, masculine hands, which have held me tight through many storms, have brought me pleasure when I thought I’d never experience it. Hands that have killed men and tortured others.
