The Detour

A Holiday Novella

K. Bromberg

Contents

Other Books by K. Bromberg

1. Harley

2. Harley

3. Harley

4. Saint

5. Harley

6. Harley

7. Harley

8. Saint

9. Harley

10. Harley

11. Saint

12. Harley

Epilogue

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2021 by K. Bromberg

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by JKB Publishing, LLC

ISBN: 978-1-942832-31-7 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-942832-32-4 (paperback)

Editing by Missy Borucki

Printed in the United States of America

Other Books by K. Bromberg

Driven

Fueled

Crashed

Raced

Aced

Slow Burn

Sweet Ache

Hard Beat

Down Shift

UnRaveled (Novella)

Sweet Cheeks

Sweet Rivalry (Novella)

The Player

The Catch

Cuffed

Combust

Cockpit

Control (Novella)

Faking It

Resist

Reveal

Then You Happened

Flirting with 40

Hard to Handle

Hard to Hold

Hard to Score

Hard to Lose

The Package – A Holiday Novella

The Detour – A Holiday Novella

Chapter 1

Harley

“Why are Dasher and Dancer always taking coffee breaks?” the radio disc jockey asks as I lower my head and squint as if the action will allow me to see through the darkened, snow-filled night just beyond the hood of my car. “Because they are star bucks.”

His laugh echoes out of the speakers while I roll my eyes so hard that it’s unsafe because they’re off this godforsaken road for way too long.

“Not funny,” I mutter.

“It’s funny. Come on. You know it is,” his smooth voice says to everyone listening but makes me feel like he's talking to me directly.

“No, it’s not funny, Bob. It’s cheesy. Just like this damn holiday is. Too much cheer. Too much stress. Too much damn everything.” I glance over my shoulder as some jerk flies past me at about forty miles per hour as if he’s impervious to the road conditions.

“How can you not like Christmas? The laughter. The love. The baked goods and the few extra pounds they add to help you keep warm in the cold. Being around those you love and the selfless act of giving.”

“Sounds like a load of crap to me,” I mumble.

“Can you believe it’s in five days? The big countdown is on. Before I start this next set of holiday favorites, what is your one wish this season? To visit a long-lost family member? To spread cheer to those who are doing without?”

“How about finding my writing muse again and if it’s not too much to ask, have some hair pulling, back scratching, toe-curling sex while I’m at it to help cement that muse in my head, huh? Can you guarantee that for me, Bob?” I say out loud, his name coming out as if it’s a slur. “That would really add some cheer to what’s been a shitty year.”

Because isn’t that what it boils down to? And by it, I mean my current, more than crappy state of mind.

It’s been a month since I walked in on my boyfriend screwing someone else. Someone named Gary.

I’d been putting up with my ex’s mediocre bedroom skills for so long because he was incredible in every other sense of the word. While his love for cooking, cleaning, and matching Tupperware lids was more than a bonus, he was my best friend and biggest confidant. But his penchant for allowing me to soak in long bubble baths, never giving me flack for wanting to hang with my girlfriends, taking regular spa days with me, and not caring when I went shopping should have been a sign that I was his cover so his family didn’t know his true self.

And oddly enough, I’m okay with the breakup (for obvious reasons). After a rocky few weeks where I felt betrayed, I came to the realization that it’s a pretty awesome breakup. I still get to keep my best friend in my life since I have no real reason to hate him, and for the first time in his, he gets to be his true self since I sat with him, holding his hand, as he told his parents the truth.

Win-win all around.

The problem?

Now I’m stuck in a state of bleh.

The kind of bleh that leaves me unable to find my writing muse again. The writing muse I need to finish the manuscript due to my publisher over a month ago.

A dozen books on the New York Times bestseller’s list, and I’ve lost my mojo.

Well, not exactly my mojo. I sit down to write every day. A laptop in front of me, a complicated Starbucks order to my left, and a notebook and pen to the right . . . but hours later and the same blank screen with the same blinking cursor blurs before my eyes.

Sure, words have been written and deleted what feels like a hundred times, but at the end of the day, my word count is nonexistent.

How does a romance writer succeed and finish a book when she hasn’t been able to string coherent sentences together for weeks on end? How does she meet a deadline when typing every single word feels like she’s scraping it from the bottom of a cluttered barrel only to realize it doesn’t fit anywhere on the page?

Add to the misery that incredible tropical vacation said ex-boyfriend/best friend and I were going to take to shake the winter blues? Yep, he’s taking Gary instead of me.

Good for them.

Miserable for me.

The question is, how do I get rid of this feeling of bleh?

Sex.

And not just any sex, but rather some old-fashioned bed shaking where I don’t have to think or care, only feel.

Hell, it’s not like I’ve been serviced properly in the two years I’d been with my ex, so I feel like this is a needed thing. Doesn’t everybody deserve some incredible after breakup sex?

My dilemma? Sure, I could have gone to a bar and found any Tom, Dick, or Harry to fix the situation, but I’d made myself a promise: No down and dirty until I finished—or at least found my way through the fog—this book.

So now I’m a romance author who has to write about great sex without getting any . . . and the writing part most definitely hasn’t been happening.

Shit, the idea part hasn’t even been happening.

As if on cue, an obnoxiously cute and jingly holiday chorus starts to play, prompting me to sigh as I drive—if you can actually call this slow pace driving—through the snow.

It’s because of Christmas.

It has to be this damn holiday, its artificial cheeriness, and its superficial notion that to give is better than to receive because I gave. Hell, I gave for two whole years, and now I’m alone and unsatisfied with an unfinished book and a dried up hooha.

Figures, though. Christmas is like Friday the thirteenth for me. Nothing ever good happens on it. Elves are like black cats. Standing under mistletoe is like walking under a ladder.

You name it, and on Christmas, it can go wrong for me.

“Is it snowing out there where you are tonight?” Bob asks when the song ends. “There’s nothing like a white Christmas to spread some joy, now is there?”

I let a laugh fall that is one hundred percent sarcasm. “How about you share the joy and spread some my way because this snow ain’t cutting it, Bob.”

And just as the next song starts to play through the speakers, flashing red and blue lights break through the solid wall of white in front of me. I hit the brakes and slow down—as if I’m actually going fast at all—as I come upon the flashing orange signs that say “Road Closed.”

Seriously?

I come to a stop at the roadblock and make out a state trooper shivering on duty and standing out in the elements. I roll down the window when he makes a motion to do so.

“Sorry, miss, but the conditions are too dangerous for you to continue. It’s a complete whiteout on the bridge ahead. We've had too many accidents tonight, so we shut it down.” He must gauge my slow blink and half chuckle laced with defeat because he offers me a smile. “The storm front will move through by the morning and—”

“The morning?” I all but screech.

“I’m afraid so.”

“So, where am I supposed to go? I haven’t seen a town for miles. Am I just supposed to sit here and become a human popsicle?” I ask, dramatics being something I’m really good at. “I mean—”

“There’s a town just south of here.” He points into the white abyss in front of me. “Go about a hundred feet and then turn to the right. Take that road about a mile, and you won’t miss it.”

His chuckle that follows has all the true-crime podcasts I’ve been listening to lately—the ones that prove to me others have things way worse than I do—flit through my head. I can see it now: Lone woman on a dark side street in Podunk, Illinois, gets carjacked and her body is never found again.

“Officer, you say that like you’re sending me to la-la land,” I tease, but the smile he gives me does nothing to abate my curiosity.

“Let’s just say it’s a town you won’t soon forget.”

Chapter 2

Harley

The snow swirls as colorful lights come into view. At first, they’re a starburst of reds and greens against my wet windshield. But the closer I get, I realize it’s not just a few roof lines, but what looks like every single eave, hedge, and surface is lined with Christmas light after Christmas light.

Some go for the clear white bulbs or simple red and green, while others look like a bonanza of colors that make you go cross eyed.

And as if on cue, just as I see the sign with the word vacancy outlined in blinking lights, the snow lightens up to a light flurry rather than the driving clumps back on the highway.

It’s only then that I can get a good glimpse of the town. And laugh. This town looks like Christmas threw up everywhere in the least tacky sense. Statues of Frosty the Snowman and oversized Santa Claus figurines dot more surfaces than I care to count. Festive flags draping on a wire that zigzags from light pole to light pole high above Main Street. Even the stores have names that are seasonal: Kris Kringle’s Café, Gingerbread Grocery, Rustic Noel, Men-O-Rah’s Music, Saint Nick’s Saloon, Holly’s Hobbies, and on and on. They must change their names for the holiday season. There’s no way this place is this Christmas-‍y all year-round.

I pull into what looks like a main lot in the middle of town, where it seems by the status of the parking spaces—spots of black asphalt peeking out beneath tire marks—that it’s been used many times tonight. And it’s only when I glance up that I feel like fate is flipping its middle finger at me.

I laugh. It’s all I can do when I see the enormous billboard on the other end of the lot that reads, “Welcome to Saint Nick’s Hollow where we thrive on Christmas cheer!”

Serves me right for bitching about DJ Bob and his perpetual cheeriness.

And with that last thought, I slide out of my car, bundle my jacket around me, and head toward Gingerbread Grocery and its lights and hopeful warmth within.

The door jingles “Ho-Ho-Ho” when I enter, and I sigh in resignation. They really take this Christmas shit seriously here in Saint Nick’s Hollow.

“Cold out there, huh?”

I bite back my smartass remark about snow means cold, when I see the cashier looks no older than sixteen. He’s cute in that awkward teenager way, with big, brown eyes hidden behind a pair of black frames and a killer smile. “It definitely is.” I rub my hands up and down my arms.

“Can I help you?”

“You wouldn’t be able to direct me toward a hotel or lodging, would you?” I shift my feet. “They put up a roadblock, and I’m hoping there might be a room available for the night.”

“I figured that’d happen soon. That bridge makes a lot of folks nervous in weather like this. There have been quite a few people driving through town, but head over to Rudolph’s Roadside Repairs. Saint’s the mayor and owns the motel too. He’d be your best bet.”

“Saint?”

“Yes. Saint Nick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, that’s really his name.” He chuckles.

“Okay. Thanks. And what way is that?” I ask, pointing my finger over my shoulder.

I listen to his directions, thank him, and head out into what feels like is the wild, wild west of the middle of nowhere.

It only takes me a block to find Rudolph’s Roadside Repairs, and when I reach the front door, there is a sign that says, “I’m at the saloon” with an arrow pointing down the sidewalk to the right. I follow it through what feels like an idyllic American small town, save for the overabundance of Christmas décor.

When I reach the corner, I see the bar. The windows are fogged up some, but there is a muted light inside with noise spilling out every time the door opens and closes, which seems to be often in the minute I stand across the street and stare at it.

For a town that seems dead, the bar is absolutely hopping.

I make my way to the door, and when I pull it open, I’m blasted with warmth, laughter, and the scent of something delicious.

“Merry Christmas! Welcome to Saint Nick’s,” says a cheery waitress with a braid hanging over each shoulder and white fuzzy suspenders, if you can call them that.

“Thanks. Wow.” I look around, shocked at the number of people packed in here as if the world doesn’t seem like it’s ending beyond its walls.

“It’s a snow night—you know, like a snow day for school kids. We take them here for adults.” She winks. “What can I get you? What alcohol will add some color to your cheeks and warm you to your toes?”

“I don’t need . . . I’m not here for—”

“Sure you are,” she says, nodding to me and my jacket covered in snow. “You just don’t realize it yet.”

“I’m looking for Saint?” I say as if I’m not quite sure that’s what I mean. “For a room. The road’s closed. I need a place to stay. I was told—”

“You’ve come to the right place, although I’m not sure we have rooms available.” She raises a finger to someone who calls out Vix to her. “Why don’t you take a seat,” she says, pointing to the only open spot at the corner of the bar, “and I’ll send Saint your way when he has a free minute.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

“I’m Vixen.” She smiles. “Give me a holler when you decide what you want to drink.”

Vixen? Please tell me she wasn’t named after a reindeer.

With that thought still milling around in my head, I make my way through the crowded bar and sling my purse over the back on the stool before taking a seat. The bar has a charm to it. It’s the best way to describe it as I look around. The walls are paneled in wood, and the tables and chairs are a faded red. The kind of fade that says someone paid way too much for something to look aged, although it’s most likely brand new. There are old black and white photos framed on the walls, and I’m certain if I could get closer to study them, they would tell the history of this town and its abundance of holiday cheer.

There is a rack on the wall loaded with coat after coat, some still with snow on them, and nine red collars with bells are placed on the opposing one. For Santa’s reindeer? That would be my ridiculous but educated guess. Christmas carols are piped through the speakers as patrons sip drinks and act like there isn’t a blizzard raging outside.

It’s only when my eyes skim their way back to the bar top where I’m seated that I catch sight of him.

And when I mean him, I mean the kind of rugged Adonis that romance authors like me try desperately to describe with words but always fall short. He’s tall with dark hair that’s a little long over his collar. His shoulders are broad, and his biceps fill out the cuffs of his black V-neck T-shirt in that “I work out, but I’m not obsessed with it” kind of way.

But it’s his smile—wide and genuine—that crinkles the corners of his eyes but also lights them up that has me startling and turning my head for a second look, thinking, Oh my.

There’s a chuckle as Vix nudges me from where she’s stepped up beside me. “We don’t call this town Saint Nick You’ll Swallow for nothing.”

“Er . . . what?” I ask, a chuckle falling from my lips as I force myself to tear my eyes away from him and look at her and her verbal play on blow jobs and the mayor.

“Him,” she says with a knowing smirk, as if my reaction is common. “That’s Saint.”

“Saint?”

“The mayor. Saint Nick.”

I laugh. It’s nervous and awkward and sounds nothing like the sure-footed woman I am. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope.” She slaps a cocktail napkin down in front of me and puts a glass of water on it. “I assure you, he is real and even better looking up close.”

“I didn’t notice.”

It’s her turn to throw her head back and laugh. “Then you must be blind and dumb because, sweetheart, we all look and we all notice.”

I stare at her with jaw lax and eyes blinking before deciding to admit I’d been caught. “Okay. I did notice.”

“Thank god, because I didn’t take you for a fool,” she says before putting two fingers in her mouth and setting off a loud whistle. All heads in the bar swivel our way for a second.

Including Saint’s.

And this time, I’m greeted full-on with the magnitude of his smile. “You called?” he asks Vix as he wipes his hand on a red and green towel and makes his way over to us.

She was right.

He’s even better up close.

I’m not one to objectify, but hell in a handbasket, Saint Nick is stunning. Those eyes are a light brown framed by thick lashes, and that smile, when directed your way, is all but blinding.

“What's up?” he asks Vix as he stops in front of where I’m sitting.

“I have someone in need of a room,” Vix says.

“I’m all booked,” he says with a shrug that has my shoulders falling, and then his head follows the pointing of Vix’s finger aimed at me.

It’s only then that Saint’s eyes move toward me so that I’m now the object of his attention. They study me for the briefest of seconds before one corner of his mouth turns up in a lopsided smile of a greeting.

“And does she have a name?” he asks, and it takes me a second to process that yes, he is in fact speaking to me.

“Harley.” I offer my hand across the bar top for him to shake. “Harley Humbug.”

Saint lifts his eyebrows and chuckles. “You’re kidding me.”

I shake my head and sigh. “I’m afraid not.”

“Your last name is seriously Humbug?”

“It is.” I shift in my seat and glance around because I feel awkward staring at a man named Saint Nick when my last name is Humbug. “But you can call me Harley. That’s what people call me.”

Talk much? Jesus. I sound like how I’ve been writing lately—as if I can’t string sentences together.

“I assumed they called you Harley since it’s your name.” He winks and his smile softens.

“Is the hotel really full?” I ask.

“Yep.” He nods and slings the towel over his shoulder before bracing his hands on the top between us. “Completely.”

“Are you in cahoots with the state troopers?”

“Why would you ask that?” He turns his head to the side and studies me as he pours a beer, angling the glass so the foam head is minimal.

“How else do you get a town full of people?” I motion to the crowd around me. “This is insane.”

“We always have a town full of people.” He sets the glass onto a tray and starts pouring another, his eyes meeting mine every few seconds.

“I mean the no vacancies part. Is this how you keep your hotels booked solid? Close the bridge and force people to stay here?” And the minute the words are out of my mouth, I realize how they sound. “That’s not what I . . .never mind.”

Saint comes around the bar and leans over to whisper in my ear just above the fray of noise, “You’d be surprised what magical places do for people’s souls, Harley Humbug. You just might be in need of some of that magic too.”

I’m about to snort and ask him if he really gets women with lines like that, but I stop myself when I turn to face him and our eyes meet. He’s close. Closer than I expected him to be, and on top of those eyes of his having flecks of gold in them, he smells incredible.

“I don’t believe in magic,” I say, and hate that it comes out in almost a whisper.

I’m met with the slow crawl of a smile that makes me feel as if I’m the only person in this whole damn bar. “That’s a shame, Harley Humbug. It seems to me you’re missing out on life then.”

Most people would say the words and step back, gain some distance. But not Saint Nick. No. He stays where he is, inches from me, so I can feel the heat of his breath and smell the mint of his gum on it. “Where were you headed?” he asks.

“Out of town.”

“No shit.” His eyes hold mine, amusement dancing in them.

“Somewhere. Anywhere.” I laugh and turn in my chair to gain a tad bit of distance from him because, for some reason, my fingers itch to reach out and touch him. It’s the oddest thought, but there’s something about him that makes me want to see if he’s real.

I definitely need a drink.

Or sex to get it out of my system.

Because it’s not normal to want to touch a man you’ve never met before.

“And why’s that?”

“I hate the snow.”

“Troublesome when you live in Illinois.” He takes a seat on the stool beside me. “Chicago, I presume?”

“I needed to get away from the city,” I continue, ignoring his sarcastic remark, and shake my head. “Somewhere where I could concentrate and feel inspired.”

And the minute the words are out, I feel like an idiot. Or rather, I feel like I sound like an idiot.

“Inspired for what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

That grin of his returns. “Come on now. Don’t be embarrassed. We all need inspiration from time to time. The question is, what do you need to be inspired for?”

“A lot of things,” I deadpan, not willing to explain it to him nor wanting the attention that comes with explaining that I write romance. Something that is always met with a smartass comment and a roll of the eyes because it’s not considered real literature.

And frankly, I’m not in the mood.

“So, is it true? Are you giving the state trooper kickbacks from all the hotel rooms you book?”

Saint angles his head to the side and studies me for a beat. Just about when I want to look away, he says, “It’s probably best if you don’t run off the one man who can find you a place to stay in this town.”

My ears perk up at the comment. “You said there were no vacancies.”

“There aren’t.” He lifts a hand to someone who calls his name in greeting. “But I happen to know someone who just might be willing to rent a room to you for the night.”

“Really?” I ask, sitting a little straighter.

He nods. “He’s a decent guy—for the most part.” He rises from his seat. “Let me check and see. Give me a few.” He takes a step, so I get a glimpse of his very fine backside hugged by those jeans of his.

Chapter 3

Harley

“So, this is it,” Saint says as he holds his hand out as if he’s Vanna White to showcase the “room” for rent.

The inside of what could easily be called a gingerbread cottage on the outside is modern inside. White cabinets line a small kitchenette, and a brown leather couch sits beside a lit fire. The bedroom with en suite bathroom is just off the living space, complete with a pillow-covered, king-sized bed.

It’s the only place in this town that I’ve seen so far that doesn’t look like Christmas threw up in here, yet it feels . . . cozy and welcoming.

Saint turns to look at me, expectation in his eyes, and his hands clasped in front of him.

“This is perfect. Great. Thank you.” I take another step farther into the space, trying not to look at him because it’s so easy to do and forget that you’re doing it. “It’s just for the night, so I don’t need much.”

“Everybody needs something,” he says and steps past me. I turn at the same time and accidentally lose my balance when my foot lands on the raised edge of the hearth.

And as if I’d written it in one of my novels, of course, I land squarely against Saint—every hard, muscular inch of him.

I try to jump back, but his hands close over my biceps to steady me so that now we’re face to face. A very close face to face that has me having thoughts of how very easy it would be to lean in and kiss those incredible lips of his.

“No. I can’t.” My thoughts tumble into words off my lips, and mortification sets in as I shrug out of his grip.

“You can’t what?” he asks but doesn’t take a step back out of my personal space. Our eyes meet—hold—and there is an undercurrent that hums around us. One I’d like to pretend isn’t there but is damn hard not to in my current state of unsated-sexual duress.

“Nothing. Never mind.” I find a way to skirt around him and then all but trip on the edge of the hearth. Again.

Jesus, Harley. Since when do you act like the bumbling idiot?

“There’s no need to be nervous, Harley. I assure you that I only bite when asked.” His brown eyes alight with amusement as I force a swallow down my throat.

“Do you have luggage?” he asks as if he just didn’t make a statement that has parts of me wondering what the scrape of his teeth—and other parts of his mouth—would feel like on my skin. “I can ask one of my elves to head over to your car and get it for you so you don’t have to drag it through the snow.”

“Elves?”

“It’s a joke, Harley. I mean one of my helpers at the bar. Besides, the elves are way too busy for luggage duty being that we’re so close to Christmas.”

I stare at him and his lightning quick grin that tells me he’s joking.

“I’m okay. I can get it. What do I owe? Who do I pay?” I ask as he opens the front door so a blast of cold air chills the warmth of the cottage.

His eyes meet mine. “It’s on the house.”

“No. That wasn’t my intention. I—”

“On one condition.” He holds a finger up, and now I’m forced to notice his hands. Big. Strong. A platinum watch is the demarcation between it and his more than firm forearms.

Focus, Har. On his words, not his body.

Easier said than done, especially when I have to take a step closer to him to hear him above the outside noise from the bar still carrying through the night.

“What’s that?”

“Once you get settled, head back to the bar, have a meal, maybe a few drinks, and relax.” He winks. “It seems like you could use a little cheer.”

And before I can answer, Saint bounds down the steps as if he doesn’t care that there might be ice there. As I watch him disappear out of sight, it takes me a second to register what he said. I scramble after him. “Wait!” I shout just as he’s putting a key in the door lock to the house in front of the cottage.

“What?” he asks.

“Hold on. You live there? I thought you said that’s where the owner lives.”

His grin is lightning fast as I brave the cold and take a few steps toward him on the sidewalk. “I am the owner.”

“And you own the repair shop.”

“I’m a partner in it.”

“What about the bar? You a partner in that too or just work there?”

“No,” he says and shifts on his feet. “The bar, I own myself. You going to criticize a man because he has hustle?”

“No. Of course not,” I say, as he leans against the door frame, and for the first time, my brain actively acknowledges that he’s only wearing a T-shirt in this freezing cold.

The hard discs of his nipples pressed against the fabric of his shirt might also be a dead giveaway.

Think coherently.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.

“No. You get used to it living here.”

“Most people would wear a jacket regardless.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to argue, but it’s a distraction from wanting to stare.

“I’m not most people.” He shrugs.

“Clearly.” I snort. “You’re wearing a T-shirt. In a snowstorm.”

“I’m well aware.” He moves out from under the porch’s cover and takes a few steps toward me. “And so long as you keep standing in said snowstorm checking me out the way you keep doing so, I’ll definitely keep wearing it.”

I open my mouth to refute him, but then close it. His eyes. The way he looks at me. The suggestion in his smile. The playfulness of his words.

So many things call to me and validate my previous desire to reach out and touch him.

The urge is still strong, even now with the snow swirling around us.

“You’re still staring.”

“What else do you own? The whole town?” I ask in a futile attempt to turn this conversation back on him.

“I told you there was one condition to accepting the lodging,” he says, pointing to the cottage at my back. “I’ll give you the answer after you eat.”

And without another word, he chuckles and heads into the house in front of me, leaving me standing there staring at him and shaking my head.

It doesn’t take long for the cold he seems immune to, to eat through the layers of my jacket. So I start the process: head to my car back through this jolly town, grab my overnight bag while my thoughts are filled with Saint and his smile, and then sit down on the couch with a loud sigh that no one else hears but me.

There was one condition to accepting the lodging . . .

Staring at the fire Saint left stoked in the fireplace, his words and his smile keep repeating through my mind.

I’m not hungry.

I don’t care if Saint owns this town and I couldn’t care less to know anything more about Saint Nick’s Hollow.

As if on cue, my stomach growls.

When I push up from the couch and grab my bag with my laptop and notebooks, I’m determined to walk over to the diner I passed earlier to grab a bite to eat.

I have no desire to go to the saloon and eat.

Or see Saint.

Or admire everything about him.

And yet when I lock the door behind me, I know there’s nothing that interests me at the diner.

Nothing at all.

Chapter 4

Saint

“Vix? Table four? Dillon is too drunk to drive. Can you do that thing you do where you swipe the keys? I’ll call Darla and let her know she has to come pick him up.”

“Nothing like predictability, huh?”

“Must be a Friday night.” I wipe down the bar top, picking up the tips left beneath empty glasses as I think about the only thing—or rather person—that’s gotten my attention tonight. The one thing totally out of the ordinary.

Harley Humbug.

Fucking Humbug. The irony.

Even more weird? The goddamn woman has my number. Sure, people come in and out of Hollow—we’re a tourist trap after all, but very few do more than vaguely intrigue me.

But Harley? She intrigues me. Maybe it’s her mysterious demeanor or that natural beauty of hers, but she’s . . . hell, she’s walking in the door of the bar right now.

Huh. I’m surprised she showed. Earlier, her indecision—her want to figure me out with her need to forget why she’s here—was written all over her face.

But she’s here.

And I stand there and stare at her, not ashamed that I do. She’s average in height with a slender neck that’s more noticeable now that her mass of dark brown hair is pulled up in some type of knot on the top of her head.

She removes her jacket as I finish wiping down the bar, and I watch her take a few steps inside. The quick look she takes is one I’ve seen too many times to count in my time standing behind this bar. The one that’s gauging what table she can sit at that will keep her out of the limelight for the night.

The problem? We’re a packed house tonight, and there aren’t any tables to be had. The only vacant seat is the one toward the end of the bar.

Harley sees it and makes her way through the mess of chairs and tables before sitting at it. I may take my time working my way over to her, but there is no way in hell I’m going to let my other bartender take her order.

“I’m happy to say I was wrong,” I say as I move to the tap in front of her.

Harley looks up at me with a pair of light blue eyes framed by thick lashes and pink cheeks. Other than some gloss on her lips, she isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, but that in and of itself is enough to knock a man off his stride.

She’s simply stunning. High cheekbones. A pale complexion with flawless skin and a dusting of freckles across her nose. And her lips. They’re full and parted as she stares at me with so many thoughts running through her eyes that remain unspoken.

“About?” she asks.

“You showing back up here.” I lean my hips on the counter behind me and cross my arms over my chest.

“And that’s your business, why?” she asks and then immediately sighs with a soft shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound so bitchy.” She offers a half-smile. “It’s just been a long day, and frustration seems to be the name of the game lately.”

“Sounds like your detour here was par for the course.”

“Something like that.” She snorts and plays with the edges of the cocktail napkin sitting on the bar in front of her.

“You never told me where you were headed,” I say as I reach for a bottle of wine and pour a glass of white zin.

Her shrug is as unenthusiastic as her response. “My excuse to myself was that I had to go deliver some papers to my brother, but honestly, I just needed to go.”

I purse my lips, nod in understanding, and slide the glass of wine in front of her.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“It’s your favorite, and it looks like you could use it.”

Her head startles as she looks at the glass and then back to me. “How’d you know it’s my favorite?”

“You spend enough time behind this bar”—I wink— “and you get to know people.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yep.” I start a long pour of Guinness for Vix’s order.

“Then what do you know about me?”

Challenge accepted.

I take another long look at her, lips pursed, head cocked to the side. “You’re not into hard liquor because that’s too serious, because you’re too serious, and losing control isn’t your thing. At the same time, you’re restless, that much I can tell.” I set the beer on the serving station and grab a towel to wipe my hands on as I take the few steps back toward Harley. “You have an inherent dislike for the holidays, as is evident with your last name.”

“Clearly,” she says wryly above the rim of the glass.

“You’ve either been dumped recently or are getting over a breakup,” I add out of selfish curiosity to see if she has a boyfriend, and the little grimace she gives in response tells me I hit the nail on the head.

No boyfriend, then. I file it away for thought.

“And you’re escaping—” She lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, you’re escaping whatever it is that troubles you . . . perhaps that's why you can’t seem to finish that novel of yours.”

Her head whips up, and she’s on the defensive immediately, as she should be. “What? How? Why? You looked me up!”

I hold up my hands in defense, a chuckle falling from my lips. “I’m letting a strange woman stay in a part of my house. I’m sure as shit going to look them up and make sure they aren’t a serial killer. It’s only prudent on my part to check out the person I’m giving keys to.” She opens her mouth to speak and then shuts it just as quickly. “I didn’t mean any harm by it. Honestly. You mentioned on social media you were struggling with your book. I put two and two together and . . .”

“And you assumed. You know what they say about people who assume.”

My smile is quick. So is my shrug. “As a woman who uses her words for a living, I’m sure you’re more than willing to let me know.”

Our eyes hold for a beat as a sly smile curves her lips. “For the record, Saint, I got the hell out of Dodge because I wanted to find some random town with an even more random and sexy man. One who would pin me against the wall while kissing me senseless before carrying me off to have some wild, bed shaking sex. A little—or hopefully a lot of—something to take my mind off my dumpster fire of a love life and the train wreck my creativity seems to have fallen victim to.” She lifts the glass of wine and finishes the rest of it in one long gulp. “Is that the answer you were looking for?”

I’m not sure if I should applaud her endgame or raise my hand and volunteer as tribute. Regardless, I bark out a laugh and lean across the bar top to get closer to her. “If that’s the case, Humbug, you’ve come to the right place. We’re as random here as random can get. And as for the second part . . .” My eyes flicker to her lips and then back to her eyes just as she abruptly stands from her seat, confusing me. “Wait. Where are you going?” I ask, not ready for this conversation to end.

“If you’re saying this is the destination I was looking for, then shit, I better start looking around for the sexy guy portion of it.”

“Oof.” I thump the side of my fist to my heart as if I’ve just stabbed myself. “That was brutal.”

She stops mid-motion from sliding a ten-dollar bill under her empty glass and offers a lift of her eyebrows. “I guess that depends on what side of the conversation you’re on.”

I glance down at the money. “Keep your money. The wine was on the house.”

“Then put it toward my dinner.”

“But you’re leaving,” I say, and hate that it comes out with a tinge of desperation to it.

She points to the booth in the corner that a couple just vacated. “I think I’ll get more work done sitting there than if I stay here.”

“True.” I pick up her empty wineglass. “Plus, it’ll give you a view of the entire bar,” I say, motioning to the expanse of bar top that stretches the length of the room.

“And why would I need that?”

“Because that’s where I’ll be, and since taking your eyes off me is proving to be a challenge for you, it’ll give you the best vantage point.” My grin is wide as I turn and walk down said length of the bar and give her a good look at my ass she was staring at earlier.

Harley Humbug.

Of all the gin joints in town, she picks this one.

Then again, that old saying doesn’t hold water.

We are the only gin joint. Hell, we’re the only joint whatsoever.

Chapter 5

Harley

I take the table that's one side chairs, one side booth, because it’s the only one, not because it gives me an incredible view of Saint.

There’s no way I’d give him the satisfaction.

I tell myself this all the while his expression from when I told him I wanted to be held against the wall and kissed senseless replays over and over in my mind.

I wasn’t exactly lying, but I was more so saying it for shock value.

The problem is that Saint’s response wasn’t what I was expecting, and now I’ve superimposed the faceless man I wanted to kiss me, then bed me, with his.

And it’s not a bad fantasy to be had.

Too bad I made a promise to myself. One I intend to stick to.

Pulling my laptop and notebook out of my bag, I glance his way. He looks up at the same time, and our eyes meet. That arrogant smirk that he caught me looking owns his face.

His very handsome face.

“Ugh,” I groan. I don’t need this distraction right now. Not in the least.

I open my laptop, as I’ve done so many times over the past few weeks, to see the blinking cursor.

It’s just romance. It’s just words that end with sex. Write it, Harley. Write about two people connecting again after so long.

Write about two wrongs and making them right again.

With a deep breath, I place my fingers on the keys, but this time, I have thoughts. Thoughts that manifest into words. Words that are considerably coherent.

And I’m not even the littlest bit ashamed that art is imitating life as I type.

“I knew you’d be back.”

I look up and meet the eyes of the only man I’ve ever loved . . . and the only man I’ve ever let break my heart. Luke. He’s tall, rugged, with a rough cut jaw, full lips, and piercing blue eyes. Eyes that tell me he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him over the past year.

“Of course, I’d be back. For work. For my family. This is my home.” I chuckle to hide the hurt seeing him causes. “But not for you.” I all but choke on the lie as every part of me wants to fist my hands in his shirt and pull his mouth to mine.

“And yet you came here, knowing I’d be here.” He angles his head to the side and studies me. All six foot three of him owns the space behind the bar. The bar his family has owned for over fifty years.

“Old habits die hard.” I take a sip of the glass of wine he slides across the bar and wonder why I did in fact come here.

But I know.

Haven’t I known since the minute I left here with visions that I was destined for greatness in Hollywood, that I’d be back? That the time away would only reinforce the one thing I knew for certain? That Luke Wethers was the love of my life, even if he didn’t believe he was.

“They sure do,” he murmurs in a way that has hope fluttering in my belly.

Ignore it, Sophie. He told you he didn’t love you. He told you it was nothing but good sex and fun times. He told you he didn’t want you.

And yet our eyes hold, and I see so much more in his eyes—longing, sadness, affection, love—and my confusion deepens further.

“You working?”

Startled, I look up to find Vix standing there with her hands on her hips and her eyes glancing at my screen and then back to me.

Ah, so Saint told her what I do for a living. I wait for the questions to come but am pleasantly surprised when they don’t.

Maybe he didn’t tell her.

“Yeah. Just trying to play catch up,” I say, more distracted than not that my train of thought was just disrupted.

“Saint says you need dinner.”

“Does Saint always have a habit of bossing people around?” I tease as I glance over her shoulder to the man himself.

“Only when he likes you.” Her smile is quick, and the laugh that falls from her lips is knowing. “So, what’ll it be?”

I glance down to the menu and make a quick decision.

“Another glass of wine?” she asks.

“Why the hell not?” I shrug as a table to our left erupts in laughter. “Are you always this busy?”

“Only every day that ends in Y,” she says. “I’ll get that out to you as soon as it’s done.”

“Thank you.”

Excited that I’m writing for the first time, I read the words on my screen again and then laugh when I realize I’m envisioning Saint every time I type Luke and me in the role of Sophie.

“Whatever works,” I mutter as I begin to write again.

“You missed me,” I tell Luke as he fills a drink order.

“Not any more than I miss anyone else who leaves this town.”

“You’re lying,” I push, looking for something—anything—to get him to admit that his feelings are still there, still burning bright like mine are.

“How’s Hollywood?”

“It’s . . .” Different without you. Lonely. “Hollywood.” I shrug. “A lot of people, a lot of competition, a lot of everything.” I muster a half-smile.

“And it seems like you’re taking it by storm.” He wipes his hand on the towel tucked into the waistband of his pants.

“I got lucky.”

“A recurring role on the hottest sitcom on air? I’d call that more than lucky.” He holds a finger up to someone looking for his attention. “I’m surprised you could remember your way back here.”

His words sting. They feel hurtful on purpose, leaving me wondering what I ever did to him.

Other than leave him behind.

“Like I said, Luke. This is my home. I’ll always want to come back here.”

“Yeah, well, that’s fine. . . until you don’t want to come back here anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” He gives me a half-cocked smirk that owns every part of me before he moves down the length of the bar top where a trio of college-age girls giggle and bat their lashes at him while he takes their order.

Jealousy flares.

Even more so when he glances my way and knows that I see him flirting with them.

That could have been me. Still in school, still coming here and hanging on every one of Luke’s words, and passing up the once in a lifetime opportunity.

But I couldn’t. Dreams are there to chase for a reason.

Too bad I had hoped he’d chase them with me.

When I look up, there is a group of women with sorority sweatshirts on, talking to Saint. I do a double take, startled by the sight and the similarity to what I was just writing.

I stare for a beat and my breath catches when Saint looks my way and smiles. “You good?” he mouths the words.

I nod quickly in response before averting my eyes back to my screen, embarrassed as if he knows I’m writing about him.

But a slow smile slides onto my lips as I realize I’m writing. Actually writing.

How did I not see this plot all along? How did I not realize how Luke was pushing Sophie away because he knew with one word from him, she’d stay in that Podunk town and never chase her dreams? How did I not see that he truly believed in her and her talent and was simply doing what was best for her? How did I not understand he was hurting her so she wouldn’t blame him later for it?

And more than anything, how did I not see that he’s smiling through the pain because he still truly loves her?

The adrenaline hits. It’s been months since I’ve felt the high of finally understanding my story and wanting to write like the wind. Of worrying that I won’t be able to type as fast as my thoughts fly.

So simple, and yet it felt like I was trying to prove Einstein's Theory of General Relativity over the past few months.

I mumble thanks to Vix when she slides my plate of food next to me, but don’t look away from the screen as I build the scene. One word upon another until the sexual tension is so thick the reader will all but beg for it to be broken.

“What’s your problem, Luke?” I ask as he strides past me. The air is full of sounds and thick with the scents of the annual town carnival. The same carnival we shared our first kiss five years ago. “Hey. I’m talking to you,” I shout after him, but he keeps walking as if he can’t hear me. As if he doesn’t care and that hurts even worse.

It’s been a week since I’ve been back, and if there’s a way for him to avoid me, he’s made sure to find it

I should take the hint that we really are over. I should let go of the hope I’ve been holding close to my heart. And yet, I keep remembering the way he looked at me in the bar that first night back to town.

I know he still loves me.

Without giving it a second thought, I jog after him behind the Main Street Feed Store.

“Luke. Luke!” I shout until he stops and turns to face me. The muscle in his jaw twitches as the moonlight washes over his face and my heart falls to the ground.

Tears threaten, but I force myself to push them away.

“Why do you hate me?” I ask him, my voice so very quiet.

“I don’t hate you. I never have.” He takes a step toward me.

“Then why can’t you just be happy for me? Why can’t you be nice?” I all but beg and hate the desperation in my voice.

“I am being nice.”

“That’s bullshit. You’ve done everything you can to push me away or avoid me over the past week. You’ve purposefully—”

I go to grab his arm as he strides past me, and before I can process one heartbeat to the next, Luke has me spun around and pinned to the wall of the building behind me. His hands tighten on my wrists as he stares at me in a frustrated anger I’ve never seen from him before.

“Don’t push me, Sophie,” he grits out.

Those words urge me to do just that as I try to yank my wrists from his grip. “Why? Why not, huh?”

“Because this town, this place, it’s not what’s best for you. You don’t belong here anymore. We don’t want you here anymore.”

I hiccup over a sob as his words tear through me and break my heart all over again. “Luke. Please.” The first tear slips down my cheek, and I hate myself for it. “Why can’t we at least be friends? Why can’t—”

“Because, as you said, old habits die hard.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

There is a moment where I feel like the world fades away. Where it feels like the Ferris wheel stops turning, the crowd stops making noise, and my lungs stop breathing.

Luke releases my wrists and slides a hand to my throat, where he places it just short of its hollow, his thumb brushing back and forth over my collarbone. His eyes flicker to my lips and then back to my eyes as a whole host of confusing emotions rage within their blue depths.

“Christ,” he mutters, seconds before his lips crash against mine.

Moments before everything that’s been wrong with my world suddenly rights itself.

From the taste of his kiss. The feel of his lips. The swell of my heart.

The feeling like I’m home.

I jolt when someone blows a noisemaker across the room from me seconds before everyone joins in singing “Happy Birthday” to Ed. Whoever Ed is.

That’s my cue for a break.

Chapter 6

Harley

I shake my head as I leave the bathroom. It shouldn’t surprise me that it’s all decked out in Christmas décor as well.

It’s par for the course in this weirdly fascinating town.

I take my time heading back to my table that Vix said she’d watch for me and check out the black and white pictures lining the walls. And I was right. They’re all pictures of Saint Nick’s Hollow during various decades.

Despite the growth that’s documented from one picture to the next, one thing is still the same: the town’s obsession with Christmas and the holidays.

It’s kind of cool.

I shake my head and chuckle. There is something definitely wrong with me if that thought is crossing my mind.

With a quick glance behind the bar as I make my way back to my seat, I’m more than disappointed when Saint’s nowhere in sight.

I tell myself my disappointment stems from the fact that he—the flirting with him—is what helped to get my creativity going, but I know the truth.

Saint makes me feel good. He looks at me in a way my ex never did. Like I’m beautiful and desired, and there is no shame in wanting to be looked at like that again.

When I reach my table, I’m surprised to see Saint leaned back in my booth, arms crossed over his chest, and one eyebrow lifted as he studies me.

I stand there for a beat until I notice that my laptop is open with my screen lit up as if someone—meaning Saint—was just looking at what I was writing. Without asking, I snap the lid of it closed and question myself over whether I left it open or if he opened it and snooped.

Either way, I round on him and his blasé expression, annoyed as hell, wondering how much of an ass I’ll look like when I accuse him and he says he didn’t.

“You left it open,” he says, answering my question for him, but I don’t know if I believe him.

“That wasn’t an invitation for you to help yourself to its content.”

He twists his lips and continues to stare at me with those inquisitive eyes. “Why are you embarrassed about what you write?”

“I’m not.”

“Hostility. It’s always welcome from a gorgeous woman.” He winks, and I hate that I want to smile at his ridiculous statement.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Do you always make it a habit to apologize to men you’ve just met?”

“No. I don’t.”

You just fluster me when I’m not a woman who gets flustered easily, so I don’t know how to handle it.

“So why are you embarrassed that you write romance?” he asks again and earns a snort from me.

“I told you I’m not.”

It’s his turn to chuckle. “I hear what your lips are saying, Harley, but everything else about you—the way you look around every time I say the word ‘romance’ as if you don’t want anyone to hear me. The way you keep glancing at your computer. How you keep chewing the inside of your cheek. I mean, I’ve gotta admit, those things tell me the exact opposite.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Romance is that genre so many people read but most deny reading. It’s the taboo one that’s labeled as smut or mindless reading and often looked down upon by people in publishing as well as readers in general,” I explain and expect him to nod in agreement.

“And?”

“And?” I repeat.

“Yeah, and? From the looks of your bio, you’re wildly successful. That means you have a following of people—probably the majority of them women. They use your books to escape the daily grind—kids, work, husbands who take them for granted. Who cares what the non-romance readers think? Who cares about the naysayers who think what you write is smut? In the end, aren’t you the one getting the last laugh?”

I stare at Saint, blinking my eyes as if I’m trying to make sure he’s really real and he actually just said that. Things only other romance authors say and not something the public openly admits.

“Wow.” I open my mouth, then close it, uncertain how to respond, and then open it again because he deserves something for putting into words how I feel. “I’m not even sure what to say.”

“Say, ‘You’re right, Saint.’” His grin is more a cocky smirk than a smile. “I never get tired of hearing that.”

“Jesus.” I roll my eyes, plant my hands firmly on my hips, and give a shake of my head. “That’s not exactly the thought that came to mind. Seriously though, why would you say that?”

He shrugs as he rises from the booth. “I may have read a romance or two in my day.”

“You?” I cough the word out.

“Me.”

“I doubt it.” I go to move past him into the alcove where my booth is, and he catches me completely off guard when he grabs my arm. In a split second, he spins me so that my back is against the wall and his body is intimately close to mine.

Every fiber of my being stands at attention as our eyes meet, and the warmth of his body radiates against mine.

My heart stutters.

My head swims.

His nearness overwhelms me in every deliciously incredible way possible.

He runs the back of his hand down the side of my cheek before turning it to frame the side of my face with his other one.

And as my breath hitches and my senses take a momentary hiatus, Saint leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. For a split second, my whole body freezes, but when his hands direct my chin up, and his lips come back for a second one, I do the only reasonable thing I can think of—I kiss him back.

My hands fist in the waist of his shirt as his tongue coaxes my lips open. He tastes of mint and desire, and I can’t remember the last time I sampled such an intoxicating combination.

It feels like the world fades away as I sag into him and allow myself to enjoy the moment.

His kiss is demanding yet attentive. Soft yet hungry. Fleeting but all-consuming.

It’s his hands on my face, the heat of his body ghosting mine, and the soft hum of appreciation in the back of his throat, that hits my senses and brands them into my memory.

And when he ends the kiss and takes a step back with a devilish grin, there is raucous applause interspersed with a few whistles and shouts of encouragement that sound off from the crowd in the bar.

The world didn’t fade away.

I was wrong in having that fleeting thought.

Instead, they stopped and stared and watched Saint kiss me deftly.

I want to cover my face in embarrassment as it hits me that our little public display of affection just held everyone’s attention.

“Hey, Humbug,” Saint says, drawing my attention back to him.

Just meeting his eyes again has chills chasing over my skin and the urge to taste his kiss front and center. “Yeah?”

“That right there? That’s what Luke needs to do to Sophie. That is what women like. What you claimed to have wanted.” He winks as I stand there, trying to make sure I heard him properly for the second time in as many minutes. “I need to get back to work.”

“You read the work on my screen.” The words come out in a flustered stutter.

“I did. I liked it. I just wanted to make sure you knew where I thought their story needed to go . . . being an avid romance reader and all.”

“Where my story needs to go?”

How can we be talking about Luke and Sophie when all I can think about is how I want him to kiss me again?

“Yes. From what I read, you’ve created the tension . . . now the two of them need a little release.” He takes a step back toward me and lowers his voice. “He needs to kiss her like I just did you. You don’t state it, but the readers know he misses her like crazy. They know he’s the good guy in the story because he’s not holding her back from chasing her dreams. Now he needs to give in to that desperation he feels every time he looks at her and kiss her senseless . . . just like I did you.”

I must look like a guppy as I stare at him, gobsmacked by his comment. “I don’t . . .” know what to say or how you inferred all that by the small portion you could have read in the limited time you were able to read.

“You can say it now,” he says as he runs a hand over his jaw and fights his smirk.

“Say what?”

“Yes. You’re right, Saint.”

I glare at him, but it’s hard to be truly angry when everything he said is one hundred percent true. Yes, it’s that time in my story where Luke and Sophie need to kiss and have angry makeup sex. Yes, I will picture him when I write it.

Yes, I want him to kiss me again.

“What was that?” he asks, holding a hand to his ear and drawing more glances from his patrons. “It’s okay, it’s hard for me to admit I’m wrong too, but I’ll take that kiss of yours as evidence that I’m right.”

He flashes one more grin and then heads toward the bar without another word. Another round of applause sounds off as he takes a mock bow once he’s behind the bar, but his eyes find mine one last time, and they’re definitely not mocking me.

They’re laden with desire and hint that he wants more too.

I force myself to look away and sit back down at my laptop, my story that suddenly has legs to it, and my mind fixated on what just happened.

And on Saint.

How can it not be?

“Fine, you win,” I mutter. “Yes. You’re right, Saint.”

Chapter 7

Harley

He’s distracting.

Plain and simple.

Sure, I’ve written almost four thousand words while sitting here—which is an insane amount—but I know it could be a ton more. How? Because every time I hear his voice just above the fray of noise, I stop and look up. Then I proceed to get lost in staring at him for the next few minutes.

The way he throws his head back and laughs heartily with the guys. How he leans on his forearms and dips his head down to have a conversation with someone at the bar. His undivided attention seeming to make the person he’s speaking with feel like they are the only person in the room. All while keeping an eye on every table and directing Vix and a few other servers at times.

Not to mention the few winks he’s thrown my way, followed soon after by a fresh glass of wine.

Winks, mind you, that have me daydreaming about things that can only be described as not safe for work.

Infatuation much, Harley?

With a deep breath, I return to Sophie and Luke and how they’re supposed to be getting it on when Vix stops right in front of me and stares.

I glance up to meet her eyes. “Yes?”

Her grin is wide and playful. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Then why are you staring at me?”

“Because Saint told me who you were and, holy shit, I can’t believe you’re you. You’re her. Do you have any idea how hard I fell for Giovanni and Drea in Heart’s Fall?” she asks.

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you.” She stares at me for a beat longer before shaking her head in my awkwardness at being recognized. “I’m sorry. That probably makes you feel all kinds of awkward. I’ll go now.”

“No. You’re fine. Compliments unnerve me and to add to it, I think I’m just really tired.” I offer a smile and then startle when I glance at the clock on my computer and see that it’s almost two in the morning. I can’t remember the last time I stayed up this late writing without feeling like my brain was being squeezed in a vise.

“It’s really that late. You’ve been working hard over here for a few hours.”

“I guess I have. Wow.” I close my notebook. “Thank you so much for tending to me all night. When you get a moment, can I get my check?”

She waves a hand at me. “Saint said it’s on the house.”

I glance over her shoulder to where Saint has his arm around a man and is having what appears to be a rather serious conversation.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s what he says, and since he’s the boss”—she shrugs— “what he says goes.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

She laughs. “By the looks of how he kissed you, talking won’t do any good.”

My cheeks heat at the unabashed comment. “I don’t even know what to say about that.”

“Say it was good. Say it was amazing. It’s okay to admit it.”

I laugh, surprised how easily she can put me at ease. “I’m fine writing kisses like that but experiencing them . . .”

“Doesn’t happen very often.”

“Never.” I give a small shake of my head. “He claimed to be showing me how a kiss in a romance novel should be done.”

“Girl, I don’t care what he claimed so long as it looked like that.”

I shove my laptop in my bag, wanting to ask her if Saint kissing unsuspected and stranded tourists is part of his MO, but stop myself short. I’ll be here for one night. Not even a full twelve hours. Who cares what Saint does or doesn’t do. All I know is something sparked my creativity tonight, and if it was the kiss—or even the presence of Saint—then this town isn’t all that bad.

“Ask me.”

“Ask you what?” I ask.

“Ask me the question you keep thinking but are too polite to voice.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Fine.” She picks up my empty wine glasses. “I’ll answer it then. No. Saint doesn’t just blatantly kiss random women who stop by for the night.”

“Oh.” My mouth shocks into an “O”. “That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it was. And the next question is yes, he genuinely is this nice of a guy—all the time. But kissing random strangers isn’t really his thing, so I—uh . . . think he has a thing for you. Lucky girl.” She picks up the tip I just set down for her. “Thank you. That was unnecessary.” She takes a step back. “You have a good night and drive safely to wherever you’re going tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” I watch her walk away and wonder if everyone in this idyllic town is this kind or if I finally got a little lucky, and things might turn a corner for me.

With my belongings in my hands, I struggle between the want to sneak out the door undetected and the need to stand at the edge of the bar and thank Saint for the food and drinks, and silently thank him for the kiss.

I tell myself to keep walking.

I urge myself to enjoy the moment we had—the playful impulsiveness of it—and head to my room for the night so I can get a good night’s sleep before leaving first thing in the morning.

But my feet stop.

Of course, they do.

And right when they do, I look up to find Saint standing there. “You turning in?”

I nod. “Yes. I needed to pay my bill and wanted to thank you for the meal and the wine and—” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder toward where the kiss that was heard around the world happened. “And the inspiration.”

“Glad to be of service.” His smile widens and I melt. “The food and drink are on the house.” He holds up his hands to stop me from refuting. “I’m not budging on it. It comes with the cottage.” His eyes flicker down to my lips and then back up to mine. “Is there anything else you needed?”

You.

Another kiss.

You to knock on my door tonight.

All the above.

“No,” I stutter over the thoughts that want to manifest into words. Words I’ve written a thousand times in my books but would never dare be brave enough to utter in real life. I offer a tight smile instead. “I’m good. Thank you. I . . .” I throw my hands up, obviously at a loss for words. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

His eyes hold mine as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m happy to have provided it.”

Move feet.

Move out the door.

“Good night.” Another smile. A lame little wave that only serves to highlight my awkwardness.

And then I turn my back with Saint’s eyes still on me and leave the saloon.

I’m greeted by the bitter cold immediately. It stings my cheeks and lungs, and my breath turns into white puffs that envelop my head as I make my way to my place.

To technically his place.

“You need help,” I mutter as I put my key in the lock.

Chapter 8

Saint

“You purposely trying to be the last one here tonight so no one sees you sneak off to your love shack?”

“You mean to my house?” I ask and play it off because I love Vix to death, but she is such a hopeless romantic that I know she’s already mentally planning a happily ever after for me.

One I’ll never find or have.

One that is case in point with Harley’s reaction to Saint Nick’s Hollow. A joke. A tourist trap. A dot on a map that will be forgotten as soon as she drives across its boundary line tomorrow.

And it’s a place I’ll never leave. Can’t. It’s part of who I am and my family history.

So why did I kiss her then?

Why did I give in to the urge?

Because it was more than sexy to read her words and picture her as the heroine.

And to want something like that.

To think maybe someday someone who stops by might come back, just for me.

Quit being a goddamn sap.

Go home.

“Yeah. Sure. Your house. The one next door to a woman you kissed senseless. That one.”

“That was nothing.”

She throws her head back and laughs dramatically as she stuffs her apron into the dirty clothes bin we have in the back. “Sure. Yeah. That was nothing. But don’t worry, I’m leaving now so that you’re free to move about her cabin any way you see fit.”

I roll my eyes. “Go to sleep, Vix.”

“Go home, Saint.”

Go home.

Question is, which door of the property that I own am I going to walk through?

Hers or mine?

Chapter 9

Harley

“Stop looking at the door.”

It’s been the same comment that’s been on my lips for the past hour. Well after I finished the scene that I never thought I’d get through. The same scene that has stumped me for months. The one that is now completed, promise all but fulfilled to myself . . .

The promise that said sex was on the menu for me.

And of course, how can I stop thinking about that sex when the man I have fantasized having it with—over the past few hours, vicariously through my characters, standing here staring at the wall—is just outside that door?

Maybe it’s because I’m going crazy. Maybe it’s because I’ve already played out exactly how it would happen, as if it were a scene between Sophie and Luke.

There would be no sweet talk, no tender words. Just his needs and my wants and a whole lot of skin in between.

So yes, it’s well past three in the morning, and like any sane person, I need to stop looking at the door as I sit in my matching pajama set with thoughts running wild about a man I’ll probably never see again.

And that’s probably for the better, seeing as I've most likely done what I’m accused of doing in my novels—make things too good to be true so I ruin reality.

Typical me . . . waiting for something that never comes.

Drowsy and yawning, I rise from the couch and make my way to the bedroom. I startle in surprise when there’s a knock on the door. So much so that I stare at the slab of wood as I blink my eyes and wonder if I’m dreaming or if this is real.

Does it really matter?

I open the door as if I already know it’s going to be him . . . and I’m not wrong. An icy blast of air hits me, but I’m already heating up at the sight of him.

His hair is wet as if he just took a shower and that black V-neck is now a blue one and those snug jeans have been replaced by a darker pair.

But no jacket.

No anything to cover up his broad shoulders and honed muscles. No scarf to hide that rough cut jaw or gorgeous mouth.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he says as a crooked smile slides onto his lips, and his eyes glance down to where my nipples are no doubt hard as rocks and straining against the thermal material of my pajama top.

There is a suspension of time as sexual tension crackles, and every part of me ignites from the darkening of his eyes when they look back up to meet mine.

“Did you need something?” I ask, trying to act casual when every part of me aches and screams the answer I want to hear.

Me.

You need me.

Now.

“Just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed.” His tongue darts out to wet his lip.

I emit a nervous chuckle as I suddenly realize I should have shaved. Spritzed perfume on my skin. Painted my toenails. Did the “I’m going to have sex” prep on the off chance this would happen.

The very off chance that now doesn’t seem so very off.

Christ.

“Yes. I think. Sure.”

He takes a step inside and closes the door behind him without asking me if I want him to come in.

Of course, I do.

And now that the door is closed, this space suddenly feels so much smaller. The air feels electric. The attraction is undeniable. What will happen next was predestined from the minute he shut the door.

“I wanted to know if you needed any more help.”

“With?”

I stand still as he takes a step closer.

“How to plot the rest of your story.”

“Meaning?”

“In some stories, there is a natural progression of things. In others . . .” He shrugs.

“In others?”

“In others.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the chafe of his stubble against his hand filling the room. He looks to the floor, emits a chuckle, and then meets my eyes again. “In others, progression doesn’t matter. Chemistry. Lust. Necessity is all that matters.”

“Necessity?”

“Mm-hmm.” The simple sound rumbles through the room.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Did I just play the helpless female and act like I had no inkling of what he meant?

Damn straight, I did.

And by the way he takes another step closer and reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear, I think he heard it too.

“Maybe it’s best if I show you,” he murmurs.

“I think it is.”

From one moment to the next, we crash into each other. Demanding lips and possessive hands as we shrug out of and slip overhead any barrier preventing us from touching.

There is a frenzied desperation to touch skin as our lips move and tongues tangle and bodies find each other.

We leave a trail of clothes along the floor—shirts, socks, pants, underwear—as my every thought is Saint.

More.

Now.

God, yes.

There is no first-time awkwardness as we move through the bedroom door into the darkened room.

There is no fumbling like idiots in the dark as his mouth closes over the peak of my nipple, and I reach out to find him hard and ready as we lower ourselves to the bed.

His beard has a sensual abrasiveness to it as it teases me everywhere it touches before his mouth tempts. His hands are strong and firm and grip and grab in the most deliciously dominant of ways. And his body—its feel, its strength, its power—has everything in me craving for the next touch, the next kiss, the need for him to take me right now.

I groan when his mouth leaves my neck and then hold my breath as I watch him roll a condom over the impressive length of his cock.

He teases me with its head first, sliding up and down the length of my slit, while the thumb of his other hand adds friction to my clit.

“Please,” I all but beg as he pushes in a little farther, and my hips buck up for him to give me more.

He chuckles, but it turns into a guttural groan when he presses all the way into me and my warm, wet heat coats him.

Everything that follows next feels like it’s in snapshots of time.

My back arching as his hands grab hold of my hips.

My body singing as he works that glorious cock of his in and out of me.

My fingers gripping the sheets at my sides as he towers over me, thrust after thrust, until the need for my release builds.

One brick upon another.

One moan right after another.

My body begins to tense. My heart begins to race. My breath becomes labored.

I moan out as the orgasm slams into me like a tsunami I knew was coming but forgot how devastating it could be.

It crashes into me.

It pulls me under its bliss.

Wave after wave of pleasure pulses through me until I feel like I’m drowning in it—the feel of him as I tighten around him, the ecstasy vibrating through my every muscle, and the muttered swear he gives when he realizes it’s his turn.

And he chases it.

He sets a punishing pace that has every part of me reacting and wanting it never to stop because he—this—feels incredible.

Within seconds, Saint’s head is thrown back, his groan rumbles around the room, and his body tenses as he comes.

Chapter 10

Harley

I awake with a start, my pulse thundering in my ears, and immediately look to my right.

The bed is empty. The pillow or blankets on that side aren’t disturbed.

There’s no one there.

No Saint.

No nothing.

Just the sun streaming through the closed slats of the blinds and a clock on the wall letting me know it’s half past eight in the morning.

I sit up and hang my feet over the edge of the bed as I look out the bedroom door and see the rest of the cabin is perfectly empty.

“What the hell?”

Did last night happen?

Did Saint come here and was that toe-curling sex real?

I go to stand and feel a soreness between my thighs that says, yes, it was real.

Then why did he . . .

But I get it.

I do.

Saint made things easier on me by making sure to be gone when I woke up. To help avoid that awkwardness that comes with regretting a decision you made the night before. To, in a sense, avoid the walk of shame.

One-night stands aren’t my typical MO, but in this situation, what did I expect? It’s not like I’m going to move to this merry wonderland of a town.

It’s not like I have any intention of ever coming back.

I sit back down on the edge of the bed and laugh. It’s long and loud and slightly hysterical, but who knew a little detour could give me this? A clear plotline and the good sex I so desperately needed.

“Who knew?” I mutter and then laugh again.

Chapter 11

Saint

I watch her from the window and every part of me wants to go out there and carry that suitcase for her.

Last night comes back to me and I groan. Fucking perfection in every sense of the word. Except for now when I’d prefer to ask her to stay and . . .

“And what, Saint? Live here? Get to know her better? It was one fucking night. Get over yourself.”

I take a sip of my coffee and shake my head as she turns the corner so I can’t see her anymore.

My sigh is heavy.

Why do I live in this town?

Why am I burdened with being a Nick, born and tasked to keep Saint Nick’s Hollow running?

But I know why.

I love my life. I love this town.

And maybe one day . . . she’ll come back again.

Chapter 12

Harley

I still did the walk of shame.

I crept past Saint’s door even though every part of me wanted to knock and say goodbye. But that would have been awkward. That would have made things messy.

So instead, I snuck off after leaving some cash for the room in the kitchenette and a business card with my contact info should I owe any more.

But that’s a lie.

I know I don’t owe any more money as I left more than enough for the food and place to stay.

I simply wanted him to have my number in case . . . I don’t know why.

And here I sit in my car as the engine warms and the defroster clears the windshield, telling myself to put the car in reverse and leave this unexpected little venture.

My tires crunch over the white snow as I head down the main drag back out toward the highway. It’s as beautiful as I thought it would be in the daylight—and still as festive.

“Good morning, Christmas crooners. It’s Bob back with you this morning. What is it you want to hear today? What are your plans? We’re one day closer to the best day of the year, so tell me, what can we do for you today?”

I laugh. “Bob? Are you my fairy godfather because I kind of think you are.”

“Yes. You are right. All the above. I wish that for you.”

I shake my head, lost in my thoughts about a torrid night between the sheets and the man I left behind. Then shift over to Sophie and Luke and how I want to finish their story . . . but then they return to Saint.

Dreamy, sexy Saint Nick.

It’s only when I turn onto the highway and my notebook falls open that I see the note he left me.

Harley-

Thank you for a night I’ll not soon forget. Maybe I can return the favor someday.

I told you everyone needs a little magic. Who knew I needed some too?

Thank you for being that magic.

-Saint

It takes everything I have not to turn around and go back, but I don’t.

Because isn’t this perfect? Isn’t this something Luke would write to Sophie?

But I’m going to have her turn around.

I’m going to have her go back and tell the man she loves that he’s her everything.

And the thoughts keep rolling through my mind as I drive home.

Epilogue

Harley

One month later

“I think we'll order take out,” I say to Rex, my furry rescue mutt. His tail thumps as I pull open my laptop to figure out what to order.

The sleet is wreaking havoc outside my windows on the city below.

But we still have power, and I have a new book to get started on. A new world to create. A new story to get lost in.

My phone alerts a text, and I dismiss the unknown number . . . that is until I see the text: I’m here. In your city. Do you think we could meet up, or I could come over? I’m missing your magic. I’m missing you.