“Mr. Saint,” she echoes, laughing as she shakes her head. Her red hair spills past her shoulders in a mess of waves, and for a split second, I think about running my hands through that hair and kissing her right there.
Then I remember that Olivia is pushing a car around the kitchen floor, and I mentally scold myself for thinking about putting my lips on her right in front of her kid. Do parents kiss in front of kids? I don’t even know. Mine certainly didn’t. Of course, my childhood wasn’t exactly filled with warm memories.
Autumn’s laughter pierces through my thoughts and the darkness that starts to envelop me whenever I think about my family. “Earth to Mr. Saint.”
“What?” I realize I’m standing there with a box in my hand.
“Are you holding knives?” she asks.
I hand her the box. “Your knives are shit, Red,” I remind her. Then I glance over at Olivia. “Crap. They’re crap. Sorry.”
“When she starts dropping f-bombs regularly, I’m going to know who to blame,” Autumn says. But Olivia is making her way across the kitchen, chasing the car that careens across the tile until it crashes into the wall opposite us.
“I’ve never had to worry about anyone mimicking me,” I point out.
“Don’t you have younger brothers?” Autumn asks, and then her face colors. “I mean, I heard that – someone told me.”
If she were babbling nervously about any other subject, I’d almost find it endearing. But the fact that she knows about my family puts me on edge, and I turn around, unloading groceries from the bag to distract myself. “I have younger brothers,” I confirm, my voice harder than I intend it to be. “But I’m sure you looked into my family already.”
“I didn’t,” she insists too quickly. “I mean, I did. A little bit.”
My stomach flips. A girl like Autumn isn’t the kind of girl who hooks up with a guy like me. Especially after she figures out what kind of white trash family I come from. “So,” I say, my voice deliberately even. “Did you find out all my dirt?”
“I wasn’t trying to find out dirt.”
“Right.” The word comes out more sarcastic than I intend, and I finish pulling things out of the grocery bag, wondering why the hell I’m even here. I’m standing here unloading groceries as if I’m the kind of guy who cooks dinner for a chick when, in fact, I’ve never fucking done that, not even once.
In fact, I’m the guy who makes sure to never get the name of the chicks I bang, just because.
I should warn her that I’m an asshole. That would be the non-asshole thing to do.
“Luke Saint,” Autumn says, furrowing her brow and glaring at me with a mixture of anger and disapproval. “I didn’t go digging around your personal life, although I probably should have, since you’re standing in my house and you very well could be a serial killer.”
“Trust me,” I say. “With the way you get under my skin, if I were a serial killer, you’d have been a goner already.”
“That’s probably true,” she says, laughing. “Although, who brings someone knives as a gift? That’s like, super creepy serial killer stuff right there.”
“Someone who can’t work in this lame kitchen of yours,” I answer.
“Really? The guy who’s living in a camper down by the river calls my kitchen lame?”
“Woman, you haven’t seen my kitchen.”
“Woman?” She laughs under her breath. “Has anyone ever told you that you really have some retro-macho attitude going on?”
Olivia comes careening across the kitchen floor, the toy car in one hand, as she runs on unsteady legs straight into Autumn’s leg, and Autumn lets out an “Oof!” as Olivia hugs her. In a flash, the toddler is on the move again, not even pausing to stop as she slides the car across the floor in the opposite direction.
“Woman,” I repeat with heavier emphasis. “Who’s cooking for your little behind right now?”
She laughs. “My behind, as you put it, hasn’t been called ‘little’ in a long time.”
I make a show of walking around behind her and taking a long look at her ass in the jeans she’s wearing. Shit, hers has to be the nicest ass I’ve ever seen. I want to slide my hands over it. Hell, if her kid weren’t here, I’d be bending Autumn over the kitchen counter right now. Instead, I make an appreciative noise under my breath. “Your behind is perfect,” I say, walking back to the counter.
Autumn’s cheeks flush pink, which only makes me think about what she’d look like flushed with arousal underneath me in bed. Or on top of me. Or pinned against the wall. Or sitting on the kitchen counter.
Damn it. This girl is going to be the death of me.
She’s going to destroy me, ruin me in every way it’s possible to ruin someone.
In all of the best possible ways.
“In fact,” I say. “I’ll let you know what I think about it later.”