“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.

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.