Page 8 of The Detour

As if on cue, my stomach growls.

When I push up from the couch and grab my bag with my laptop and notebooks, I’m determined to walk over to the diner I passed earlier to grab a bite to eat.

I have no desire to go to the saloon and eat.

Or see Saint.

Or admire everything about him.

And yet when I lock the door behind me, I know there’s nothing that interests me at the diner.

Nothing at all.

4

Saint

“Vix? Table four? Dillon is too drunk to drive. Can you do that thing you do where you swipe the keys? I’ll call Darla and let her know she has to come pick him up.”

“Nothing like predictability, huh?”

“Must be a Friday night.” I wipe down the bar top, picking up the tips left beneath empty glasses as I think about the only thing—or rather person—that’s gotten my attention tonight. The one thing totally out of the ordinary.

Harley Humbug.

Fucking Humbug. The irony.

Even more weird? The goddamn woman has my number. Sure, people come in and out of Hollow—we’re a tourist trap after all, but very few do more than vaguely intrigue me.

But Harley? She intrigues me. Maybe it’s her mysterious demeanor or that natural beauty of hers, but she’s . . . hell, she’s walking in the door of the bar right now.

Huh. I’m surprised she showed. Earlier, her indecision—her want to figure me out with her need to forget why she’s here—was written all over her face.

But she’s here.

And I stand there and stare at her, not ashamed that I do. She’s average in height with a slender neck that’s more noticeable now that her mass of dark brown hair is pulled up in some type of knot on the top of her head.

She removes her jacket as I finish wiping down the bar, and I watch her take a few steps inside. The quick look she takes is one I’ve seen too many times to count in my time standing behind this bar. The one that’s gauging what table she can sit at that will keep her out of the limelight for the night.

The problem? We’re a packed house tonight, and there aren’t any tables to be had. The only vacant seat is the one toward the end of the bar.

Harley sees it and makes her way through the mess of chairs and tables before sitting at it. I may take my time working my way over to her, but there is no way in hell I’m going to let my other bartender take her order.

“I’m happy to say I was wrong,” I say as I move to the tap in front of her.

Harley looks up at me with a pair of light blue eyes framed by thick lashes and pink cheeks. Other than some gloss on her lips, she isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, but that in and of itself is enough to knock a man off his stride.

She’s simply stunning. High cheekbones. A pale complexion with flawless skin and a dusting of freckles across her nose. And her lips. They’re full and parted as she stares at me with so many thoughts running through her eyes that remain unspoken.

“About?” she asks.

“You showing back up here.” I lean my hips on the counter behind me and cross my arms over my chest.

“And that’s your business, why?” she asks and then immediately sighs with a soft shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound so bitchy.” She offers a half-smile. “It’s just been a long day, and frustration seems to be the name of the game lately.”

“Sounds like your detour here was par for the course.”

“Something like that.” She snorts and plays with the edges of the cocktail napkin sitting on the bar in front of her.