by K. Bromberg
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. N
othing 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 ou
t 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.
