Page 14 of The Detour

“I’m not.”

“Hostility. It’s always welcome from a gorgeous woman.” He winks, and I hate that I want to smile at his ridiculous statement.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Do you always make it a habit to apologize to men you’ve just met?”

“No. I don’t.”

You just fluster me when I’m not a woman who gets flustered easily, so I don’t know how to handle it.

“So why are you embarrassed that you write romance?” he asks again and earns a snort from me.

“I told you I’m not.”

It’s his turn to chuckle. “I hear what your lips are saying, Harley, but everything else about you—the way you look around every time I say the word ‘romance’ as if you don’t want anyone to hear me. The way you keep glancing at your computer. How you keep chewing the inside of your cheek. I mean, I’ve gotta admit, those things tell me the exact opposite.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Romance is that genre so many people read but most deny reading. It’s the taboo one that’s labeled as smut or mindless reading and often looked down upon by people in publishing as well as readers in general,” I explain and expect him to nod in agreement.

“And?”

“And?” I repeat.

“Yeah, and? From the looks of your bio, you’re wildly successful. That means you have a following of people—probably the majority of them women. They use your books to escape the daily grind—kids, work, husbands who take them for granted. Who cares what the non-romance readers think? Who cares about the naysayers who think what you write is smut? In the end, aren’t you the one getting the last laugh?”

I stare at Saint, blinking my eyes as if I’m trying to make sure he’s really real and he actually just said that. Things only other romance authors say and not something the public openly admits.

“Wow.” I open my mouth, then close it, uncertain how to respond, and then open it again because he deserves something for putting into words how I feel. “I’m not even sure what to say.”

“Say, ‘You’re right, Saint.’” His grin is more a cocky smirk than a smile. “I never get tired of hearing that.”

“Jesus.” I roll my eyes, plant my hands firmly on my hips, and give a shake of my head. “That’s not exactly the thought that came to mind. Seriously though, why would you say that?”

He shrugs as he rises from the booth. “I may have read a romance or two in my day.”

“You?” I cough the word out.

“Me.”

“I doubt it.” I go to move past him into the alcove where my booth is, and he catches me completely off guard when he grabs my arm. In a split second, he spins me so that my back is against the wall and his body is intimately close to mine.

Every fiber of my being stands at attention as our eyes meet, and the warmth of his body radiates against mine.

My heart stutters.

My head swims.

His nearness overwhelms me in every deliciously incredible way possible.

He runs the back of his hand down the side of my cheek before turning it to frame the side of my face with his other one.

And as my breath hitches and my senses take a momentary hiatus, Saint leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. For a split second, my whole body freezes, but when his hands direct my chin up, and his lips come back for a second one, I do the only reasonable thing I can think of—I kiss him back.

My hands fist in the waist of his shirt as his tongue coaxes my lips open. He tastes of mint and desire, and I can’t remember the last time I sampled such an intoxicating combination.