Page 5 of The Detour

“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.”