Page 3 of Unholy Night

The man cocked his head to the side and did this thing with his lip that was somewhere between a pout and a snarl. Fuck. I need to stop staring at his lips. His soft, thick lips. No. Stop it!

He clicked his pen. “Oh, you mean my grandmother. Sweet thing. Yeah she died. Me and my partners run the inn now. Sorry, I forgot my name tag in the back. My name’s Roman.”

A shiver ran through me. “Partners? This isn’t the Hyatt. How many assholes does it take to run a twelve-room bed and breakfast?”

Roman leaned forward on his elbows, grinning as if I was the most amusing thing he’d seen all day. “Well, there’s check in, cooking, cleaning… you’d be surprised how dirty it can get around here.”

By the way he winked, I was sure that he was used to that being a surefire panty-dropper, but it only pissed me off more. “Okay, Casanova, let’s get one thing straight. I have three days to finish my book. Three fucking days. Now as long as you keep the food coming, the power on, and the other guests in check, we’ll get along just fine, and I’ll leave you an amazing Yelp review.”

“Credit card and ID please, darlin’,” Roman drawled, totally ignoring everything I said in typical male fashion.

His eyes only slightly deviated from the computer screen when I took a huge pull from my flask. But it was subtle. This guy was good. He didn’t miss a beat. But there was no way this hot lumber jack was running Santa’s toy shop-slash-inn. Aside from the twenty-seven variations of Santa dolls lining the floor, there were three Christmas trees in this room for fuck’s sake. Three. Really? It was creepy as fuck.

Roman, AKA, hot ruler of Santa Land, placed a key card on the counter. “Alright, Miss Radleigh. You’re in the North Pole room. I’ll have Penn grab your bags and show you up.”

What the actual fuck?

“Excuse me, North Pole room? Your inn doesn’t use fucking numbers?” My armpits were sweating now. Yup. I could smell my deodorant working overtime.

Roman held onto his charm like a fucking leprechaun. “Yes, ma’am. Christmas was my grandmother’s favorite holiday. May she rest in peace.”

Oh, I’ve done it now. I was going to be in one of those Netflix docuseries. I could see it now: romance author unlucky in love, checks into Christmas horror house and gets chopped up into little pieces by hot lumberjacks.

“Right. Whatever.” I took another swig. “Where’s Pencil?”

“It’s Penn.” Another one. Ripped in a tight T-shirt. Blond wavy hair. Blue eyes. Looks like he walks around with an airbrush filter. Fuck.

I was a bit drunk but even a sober person would think this was all a bit much. “Sorry, Penn.”

He made sure to flex his muscles as he picked up my luggage. He snickered as I followed him up the very old and very creaky stairs. “You sure you’re just here for the weekend? This bag weighs more than my car.”

Oh, a cheeky one. Awesome. “If it’s too heavy for you, pencil, I’m sure I can manage.”

He stopped abruptly, causing me to bump into his back. As he turned around, my heart raced. My mouth always got me in trouble. Shit. They could be like sweet hot lumber jack innkeepers by day and serial killers by night.

Penn’s lips curled up into a smirk. “You’re fucking feisty. And I’m here for it.”

I rolled my eyes but inside my belly was fluttering. There was something about the way he was looking at me. Like I was a meal to be devoured. It made me uneasy. But I wasn’t sure yet if that was a good or bad thing.

By the time we reached the North Pole—never thought I’d use that in a sentence—my blond lumberjack was now ogling every inch of my body. Another reason why I should have worn ugly snowshoes instead of heels.

I handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “Thank you, Penn.”

He looked at me like I had three heads. “I’m not taking your money.”

“It’s a tip. For carrying my luggage.” Holy Christmas balls what was wrong with this place?

He stepped into me, a little too close. “Where I come from, we don’t charge women for carrying their bags. It’s called being a gentleman.”

Maybe it was the six-hour flight or the copious amounts of whiskey I’ve consumed, but something about the way Penn was standing, the way he drawled that all out, turned me on more than I cared to admit.

“Great line. I’m gonna use that one.” I gave him a wink before I closed the door.

Roman

“I told you to lock the fucking front door, Penn.”

The night was almost over. Almost. Until that bombshell walked in. We were just hours away from getting what we wanted.

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