'Tis the Season for Romance

by Kristen Proby

  “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.”