My dilemma? Sure, I could have gone to a bar and found any Tom, Dick, or Harry to fix the situation, but I’d made myself a promise: No down and dirty until I finished—or at least found my way through the fog—this book.

So now I’m a romance author who has to write about great sex without getting any . . . and the writing part most definitely hasn’t been happening.

Shit, the idea part hasn’t even been happening.

As if on cue, an obnoxiously cute and jingly holiday chorus starts to play, prompting me to sigh as I drive—if you can actually call this slow pace driving—through the snow.

It’s because of Christmas.

It has to be this damn holiday, its artificial cheeriness, and its superficial notion that to give is better than to receive because I gave. Hell, I gave for two whole years, and now I’m alone and unsatisfied with an unfinished book and a dried up hooha.

Figures, though. Christmas is like Friday the thirteenth for me. Nothing ever good happens on it. Elves are like black cats. Standing under mistletoe is like walking under a ladder.

You name it, and on Christmas, it can go wrong for me.

“Is it snowing out there where you are tonight?” Bob asks when the song ends. “There’s nothing like a white Christmas to spread some joy, now is there?”

I let a laugh fall that is one hundred percent sarcasm. “How about you share the joy and spread some my way because this snow ain’t cutting it, Bob.”

And just as the next song starts to play through the speakers, flashing red and blue lights break through the solid wall of white in front of me. I hit the brakes and slow down—as if I’m actually going fast at all—as I come upon the flashing orange signs that say “Road Closed.”

Seriously?

I come to a stop at the roadblock and make out a state trooper shivering on duty and standing out in the elements. I roll down the window when he makes a motion to do so.

“Sorry, miss, but the conditions are too dangerous for you to continue. It’s a complete whiteout on the bridge ahead. We've had too many accidents tonight, so we shut it down.” He must gauge my slow blink and half chuckle laced with defeat because he offers me a smile. “The storm front will move through by the morning and—”

“The morning?” I all but screech.

“I’m afraid so.”

“So, where am I supposed to go? I haven’t seen a town for miles. Am I just supposed to sit here and become a human popsicle?” I ask, dramatics being something I’m really good at. “I mean—”