“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.
'Tis the Season for Romance Page 15