Page 18 of My Puckin' Luck
ANASTASIA
“Treat him with care…I think he’s been through hell and back with someone long ago… You could be really good for him...”
My hand reaches up to my forehead and rubs away those words Jimmy had left me with last night at the bar. When I raise my eyes, sunlight stabs me from the window. I wince and wake up in a strange bed, almost panicking, then it all comes crashing back, every second of the endless night with Saint. One with so many ups and downs, like a roller coaster ride, I’m dizzy from it all.
The way Saint appreciated my assets the first time he saw me in the Angel costume—Definitely a high. A big win.
What about the family drama like a live soap opera between Saint and his mother and sister? I’d normally give Barbara’s acting the usual five stars, but the way it worried Saint’s handsome features, two stars at most.
My dad—not going there.
I swing my legs off the side of the bed, sitting upright too fast, my stomach roiling. Next time, if I’m once again at Jimmy McCool’s, I’ll skip the three pints of Guinness and endless whiskey shots. I don’t think I’ve had that much to drink ever in my life. Or that much fun, thanks to Saint. He and Jimmy knowhow to make a woman feel special; they could give lessons to the rest of the male population in L.A.
I look down at my body, the white satin minidress and body shaper still intact, no seams ripped. Disappointing, but probably for the best. Then I recall the moment outside my front door when I was all-too ready to jump in the sack with Saint and let him come inside of me. Another missed opportunity to become intimate with him. But where would it have led? Nowhere. Although, here I am in his guest bed where he tucked me in so sweetly last night with a box of tissues next to me in case I cried some more over my flood-ravaged apartment. A week ago, this was somewhere I hadn’t thought I’d ever be.
It’s unnerving seeing this side of Saint. In all our previous encounters and friend group outings, he was the confident, debonair, quintessential playboy. The bad boy of my dreams.
Last night Saint proved he has a soft spot—for me. Why? I haven’t the first clue. But his eyes never once roamed from me and my body all night, no matter how many other pretty women paraded by us in the bar. And when he stepped in to help me at my place, taking the phone from my hands to deal with the association, letting me douse his shirt in tears and stay with him until it’s all fixed? That’s true kindness and friendship and shows he has a heart.
Maybe not everything about him revolves around sex.
Well…unless he’s doing all this hoping for a huge payday, like me on my knees offering countless blow jobs.
I snicker at that, and find my way out into the hall and down to the bathroom to do my business. Going through the drawers of the vanity, it’s well-appointed with toiletries of all kinds, I find. Must be contingencies for any puck bunny sleepovers.
With a grimace, my faith in the sweet part of his heart reduces as I strut back into the bedroom. On the nearby bed stand, my phone pings. I look and it’s him.
Saint: Good afternoon, angel.
I panic at the time. Just past one? I never sleep that late, although I rarely drink a barrel of Irish beer.
Saint: Glad you’re awake now.
How did he know?
Anastasia: I just woke up. How did you know?
Saint: I have a pretty cool security system that tracks heat signatures in the house. I can tell when someone is inside when I’m not home.
Of course he does. He added the rooftop sanctuary, with enough money, why not any new toy or gadget in the house—wait.
Anastasia: Don’t tell me you have a secret room for sex and torture.
Saint: No. Unless you’re game for that sort of thing. ;)
Saint: Just kidding, angel. I left some fresh pastries and juice by the coffeepot in the kitchen.
The roiling turns into a growl, hungry as a beast, ready to feast.
Anastasia: Thanks.
Saint: I ordered you some clothes and things from a teammate’s girlfriend who owns a boutique on Melrose. The delivery should arrive at any minute. Listen for the door.
He what? Right on cue, a doorbell chimes out in the hall. I pad out of the room quickly; the chime coming again, acting like a beacon for me to follow to the door as I try to recall how to navigate his mansion.
I warily open the heavy wooden door, peeking out first. “Hello?”
“Ma’am? I have a delivery for you,” says a stout man in dark pants and a khaki shirt with the delivery company logo on it. He holds several white rectangle-shaped boxes, while a van runs in the driveway.
