And with that last thought, I slide out of my car, bundle my jacket around me, and head toward Gingerbread Grocery and its lights and hopeful warmth within.

The door jingles “Ho-Ho-Ho” when I enter, and I sigh in resignation. They really take this Christmas shit seriously here in Saint Nick’s Hollow.

“Cold out there, huh?”

I bite back my smartass remark about snow means cold, when I see the cashier looks no older than sixteen. He’s cute in that awkward teenager way, with big, brown eyes hidden behind a pair of black frames and a killer smile. “It definitely is.” I rub my hands up and down my arms.

“Can I help you?”

“You wouldn’t be able to direct me toward a hotel or lodging, would you?” I shift my feet. “They put up a roadblock, and I’m hoping there might be a room available for the night.”

“I figured that’d happen soon. That bridge makes a lot of folks nervous in weather like this. There have been quite a few people driving through town, but head over to Rudolph’s Roadside Repairs. Saint’s the mayor and owns the motel too. He’d be your best bet.”

“Saint?”

“Yes. Saint Nick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, that’s really his name.” He chuckles.

“Okay. Thanks. And what way is that?” I ask, pointing my finger over my shoulder.

I listen to his directions, thank him, and head out into what feels like is the wild, wild west of the middle of nowhere.

It only takes me a block to find Rudolph’s Roadside Repairs, and when I reach the front door, there is a sign that says, “I’m at the saloon” with an arrow pointing down the sidewalk to the right. I follow it through what feels like an idyllic American small town, save for the overabundance of Christmas décor.

When I reach the corner, I see the bar. The windows are fogged up some, but there is a muted light inside with noise spilling out every time the door opens and closes, which seems to be often in the minute I stand across the street and stare at it.

For a town that seems dead, the bar is absolutely hopping.

I make my way to the door, and when I pull it open, I’m blasted with warmth, laughter, and the scent of something delicious.

“Merry Christmas! Welcome to Saint Nick’s,” says a cheery waitress with a braid hanging over each shoulder and white fuzzy suspenders, if you can call them that.

“Thanks. Wow.” I look around, shocked at the number of people packed in here as if the world doesn’t seem like it’s ending beyond its walls.

“It’s a snow night—you know, like a snow day for school kids. We take them here for adults.” She winks. “What can I get you? What alcohol will add some color to your cheeks and warm you to your toes?”