Page 4 of The Detour

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.