'Tis the Season for Romance

by Kristen Proby

  “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.”