Page 7 of The Detour

“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.