Page 38 of The Patron Saint of Timber Hollow

"Sounds good, Tiny." Saint agrees, and I can't help the blush that rises to my cheeks. He's called me that since we met, and yet now that I know how he moans the nickname, what his voice sounds like when it's thick with lust. It's distracting...He's distracting.

Saint doesn't seem to notice, turning the radio on and immediately picking up the notes of the songs. In what feels like no time, we're pulling into the long driveway for the Cabin, parking in the space next to my Stingray.

"What do you want to eat?" He asks as we enter the house together.

"Doesn't matter, but I do want to put comfy clothes back on," I answer, darting up the stairs to do just that, Saint's light laughter following me. Jay and I's room is at the end of the hall. Saint is in the middle, and Dante's is at the far end. As I reach the top of the stairs, I hear the faintchop chop chopof Saint prepping ingredients for whatever he's cooking for us.

When I re-emerge from my room wearing one of Jay's oversized tees and shorts, I hear the sizzle of meat being thrown into a hot pan. I don't have to go down the stairs to know what it is.

"Mmm,bacon," I hum as I cross the kitchen threshold, the aroma already filling the space.

I've never met someone whose clothes seem to disappear like Saint's shirts do whenever he enters the kitchen. He still has pants on, though they are sitting so low on his hips that I can see the indentations on either side of his hips that make a v shape and that damn vine tattoo. The belt slung through the loops of his jeans is, apparently, ineffective.

"Blt's for the babe with the brown eyes," Saint replies, smiling at me. The blush that creeps up my neck is unavoidable, so I just look at what he has prepped. The cutting board has the sliced tomato and iceberg lettuce you'd expect to find on a BLT. Alongside it, though, lay a few cuts of pepper jack cheese and thinly sliced avocado.

"Looks like too many ingredients for a BLT to me, Cinnamon."

"I'm offended if you think I'd serve youjusta plain old BLT, Tiny."

"Well, you know what they say about assuming," I reply, sitting on one of the stools at the island.

"It makes an ass out of you?"

"Yep. I guess I'm an asshole, Cinnamon." I answer, propping my chin on my interlaced hands, watching him fry bacon. Shirtless Saint in the kitchen is on my everyday wish list. The tall window panes begin to ping with the sound of rain falling from the sky. At first, it's just a few here and there until it suddenly turns into a full-on storm. It is barely forty degrees outside today, so it would be miserable to go out now.

"I don't think that counts as an apology, Tiny."

"Sure doesn't," I answer sweetly, watching him butter slices of sourdough bread, neatly assemble the sandwiches, and then toast them on a hot cast iron.

Saint just smirks to himself, toasting the BLTs to golden perfection.

"So these sandwiches are mine then?" Saint asks, placing the crispy sandwiches on a plate.

"No, no,"I gush, opening my hands."I would like one, please. Sorry for making an ass out of myself."

"That's better," Saint replies, placing the plate on the counter between us and then going towards the fridge. I can't help but watch the muscles on his back ripple as he walks away. He returns with a couple of drinks clutched in one hand.

This demanding side is not one that I'd expected. Something tells me that Saint would be just as dominant as Jay in the bedroom if he were alone with his partner. Sometimes, it's easy to forget that he is a Beta, a dominant wolf himself. He is not an Alpha like Jay, but the weight of command will be shared with him and Dante when Jay takes over for Magnus one day.

While Saint and I eat our food, we discuss what movie we want to watch. I'm team comedy, he's team classic.

"What's so wrong with just a comedy?" I ask around a mouthful of bacon.

"Nothing, except they are all the same."

"They are not. That's such a cynical way of looking at it." I fire back, ready for that argument.

"Yes, they are. The main character is a goofy guy that studios want you to believe is unattractive while they hire the most generic model bro out there who does some stupid shit; people let him get away with it because he'squirky, and somehow he 'saves the day' while still having excellent timing with his snappy comebacks. And sometimes thelove interestwho clearly does not give a shit about him ismadlyin love with him by the end."

My mouth flaps open, admittedly caught off guard by his remark. "Well.Asidefrom that. Doesn't make your perspective any less cynical, though."

"So we'll watch one of my picks, then," Saint replies, a smirk on his mouth and mischief dancing in his striking green eyes.

"Alright, alright. This time, Cinnamon." I agree, sweeping crumbs from the table onto my plate.

"Go get the couch set up, I'll clean up." Saint orders, taking both the plate and my soda can.

With only a tiny eye-roll, I go to do just that. The oversized couch is comfortable, but I want my feet up, too. So I push thefootrest in, tossing pillows into the corners of the sofa to lean on, and grabbing my favorite blanket down here. Saint emerges just as I'm settling under the covers. He's also changed, trading his jeans for gym shorts and, unfortunately, the green t-shirt back on his frame.