Page 19 of Saint

“So you’re kind of lodged in the middle? At least between your brothers?”

“I guess so,” he huffed, causing me to pause before I spoke again.

“Am I– am I boring you, Saint?”

He shrugged and raked his beard. Not in an it’s-whatever-kind-of-way, but more of an I-need-to-stimulate-myself-from-this-boring-ass-conversation kind of way.

“Keep ‘em coming,” he urged, surprising me. “It’s not lost on me that I married a social butterfly. If you think it’s important to know these things, by all means, let’s get through it.”

“If I think it’s important? Saint…” I took a deep breath before I spoke, careful not to sound as irate as I was beginning to feel. “These are standard things people are aware of when they marry someone. Haven’t you ever had a girlfriend?”

“No,” he sighed.

“No? As in… like never?” My face cringed involuntarily.

“I’ve never been involved with a woman like that. No.”

Wow.

Well, if that ever arose between us –lack of romance– I’d understand why. I didn’t think it would, but being in a beautiful home with this beautiful man for 365 days or something close to it and not being romantic seemed like a stretch. At least I’d understand why if it ever came to that.

“I don’t have a favorite color or food. But blue cereal. I like that.”

Okay.

“I like Denzel and every movie Denzel has ever played in. I like every movie by Spike Lee. The young guy from Snowfall is cool, too.

“I’m a veteran. I don’t have a bucket list since I’ve seen a good bit of the world already. I don’t drink or smoke.”

I nodded my head, appreciating how he’d answered all my questions despite my flushing them out almost incoherently.

“My name is Saint Miller. I’m twenty-eight.”

“What’s your middle name? Don’t tell me it’s Laurent.”

He cheesed, though I wasn’t sure if he’d gotten the joke or not.

“It’s Tyrone.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” I tittered.

“Saint Tyrone, baby,” he sang with a drawl before taking a sip of his water.

Baby. That made me melt. Just a little. Enough to force my thighs to press together in an attempt to halt any involuntary behavior from my lower half.

“Saint Tyrone Miller,” I repeated, arching a brow. It didn’t fit. He’d said that with a stern face, but in my brain it didn’t connect.

“Rafiq,” he said, causing me to bunch my features up.

“Rafiq? Is that the real middle name?”

“Yes. The gentle Saint,” he explained. “Saint Rafiq Miller. My father had this thing about giving his children strong names. Supreme Rafi. Saint Rafiq. Sincere Rahim. Serenity Rumi.

“Supreme is in the early stages of a real estate corporation, Serenity owns a gallery and is about to open a spa under her name, and Sin… He has a nightclub and produces music.”

“So all of you are just out here conquering the state thanks to that seed your parents sowed? They spoke all this power over you all. They must be some dynamic duo,” I gushed.

“You want to meet them?”