Page 6 of The Detour

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.

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.”

“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?”