by K. Bromberg
“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.
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 though
ts 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.
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 e
nough 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.”
