“It is.” I shift in my seat and glance around because I feel awkward staring at a man named Saint Nick when my last name is Humbug. “But you can call me Harley. That’s what people call me.”

Talk much? Jesus. I sound like how I’ve been writing lately—as if I can’t string sentences together.

“I assumed they called you Harley since it’s your name.” He winks and his smile softens.

“Is the hotel really full?” I ask.

“Yep.” He nods and slings the towel over his shoulder before bracing his hands on the top between us. “Completely.”

“Are you in cahoots with the state troopers?”

“Why would you ask that?” He turns his head to the side and studies me as he pours a beer, angling the glass so the foam head is minimal.

“How else do you get a town full of people?” I motion to the crowd around me. “This is insane.”

“We always have a town full of people.” He sets the glass onto a tray and starts pouring another, his eyes meeting mine every few seconds.

“I mean the no vacancies part. Is this how you keep your hotels booked solid? Close the bridge and force people to stay here?” And the minute the words are out of my mouth, I realize how they sound. “That’s not what I . . .never mind.”

Saint comes around the bar and leans over to whisper in my ear just above the fray of noise, “You’d be surprised what magical places do for people’s souls, Harley Humbug. You just might be in need of some of that magic too.”

I’m about to snort and ask him if he really gets women with lines like that, but I stop myself when I turn to face him and our eyes meet. He’s close. Closer than I expected him to be, and on top of those eyes of his having flecks of gold in them, he smells incredible.

“I don’t believe in magic,” I say, and hate that it comes out in almost a whisper.

I’m met with the slow crawl of a smile that makes me feel as if I’m the only person in this whole damn bar. “That’s a shame, Harley Humbug. It seems to me you’re missing out on life then.”

Most people would say the words and step back, gain some distance. But not Saint Nick. No. He stays where he is, inches from me, so I can feel the heat of his breath and smell the mint of his gum on it. “Where were you headed?” he asks.

“Out of town.”

“No shit.” His eyes hold mine, amusement dancing in them.