Page 2 of The Detour

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—”

“There’s a town just south of here.” He points into the white abyss in front of me. “Go about a hundred feet and then turn to the right. Take that road about a mile, and you won’t miss it.”

His chuckle that follows has all the true-crime podcasts I’ve been listening to lately—the ones that prove to me others have things way worse than I do—flit through my head. I can see it now: Lone woman on a dark side street in Podunk, Illinois, gets carjacked and her body is never found again.

“Officer, you say that like you’re sending me to la-la land,” I tease, but the smile he gives me does nothing to abate my curiosity.

“Let’s just say it’s a town you won’t soon forget.”

2

Harley

The snow swirls as colorful lights come into view. At first, they’re a starburst of reds and greens against my wet windshield. But the closer I get, I realize it’s not just a few roof lines, but what looks like every single eave, hedge, and surface is lined with Christmas light after Christmas light.

Some go for the clear white bulbs or simple red and green, while others look like a bonanza of colors that make you go cross eyed.

And as if on cue, just as I see the sign with the word vacancy outlined in blinking lights, the snow lightens up to a light flurry rather than the driving clumps back on the highway.

It’s only then that I can get a good glimpse of the town. And laugh. This town looks like Christmas threw up everywhere in the least tacky sense. Statues of Frosty the Snowman and oversized Santa Claus figurines dot more surfaces than I care to count. Festive flags draping on a wire that zigzags from light pole to light pole high above Main Street. Even the stores have names that are seasonal: Kris Kringle’s Café, Gingerbread Grocery, Rustic Noel, Men-O-Rah’s Music, Saint Nick’s Saloon, Holly’s Hobbies, and on and on. They must change their names for the holiday season. There’s no way this place is this Christmas-‍y all year-round.

I pull into what looks like a main lot in the middle of town, where it seems by the status of the parking spaces—spots of black asphalt peeking out beneath tire marks—that it’s been used many times tonight. And it’s only when I glance up that I feel like fate is flipping its middle finger at me.

I laugh. It’s all I can do when I see the enormous billboard on the other end of the lot that reads, “Welcome to Saint Nick’s Hollow where we thrive on Christmas cheer!”

Serves me right for bitching about DJ Bob and his perpetual cheeriness.