Page 43 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

“Well, at least you’re taking this eggnog bath in stride,” Nick says, guiding me away from the lobby. Behind us, Blizzard eagerly laps up the milky trail I’m leaving, like some sort of deranged Hansel and Gretel remake.

“So,” he continues, “which of Maggie’s gingerbread nightmares did you get assigned to? The Candy Cane Castle or the Fruitcake Fort?”

I hold up the reindeer-shaped key fob. “The economy box downwind of the reindeer pen. Room ten.”

Nick’s brow furrows, creating a little wrinkle between his eyes that’s annoyingly adorable. “That’s odd. I’m also in room?—”

“Blizzard, heel.” Maggie’s voice carries down the corridor as a large white furry missile barrels in our direction. What’s that? He has my Gucci scarf flapping from his jaws like a white flag.

Great. Now I’m going to smell like wet dog and eggnog. Merry Christmas to me.

“Oh, Miss Bennet, Blizzard has something to return to you, don’t you dearie?” Maggie says with the voice of a parent returning to a store with a toddler and a half-eaten candy bar.

Blizzard skids to a halt in front of us, tail wagging so hard his entire back end is a blur. He drops the scarf at my feet and looks up expectantly as if waiting for a round of applause for his retrieval skills.

“Good boy,” I mutter, gingerly picking up the now slobber-soaked accessory. “I’ve always wanted to accessorize with Eau de Canine.”

Nick chuckles, but his expression quickly turns serious. “Maggie, there seems to be a problem. Room ten is my room. I moved in this morning.”

I turn to Maggie, arching an eyebrow. “Unless you have two different room tens here?”

The innkeeper claps her hands together in dismay. “Oh, dear me. I completely forgot with all the excitement. There seems to be a slight… hiccup with the booking system. The Reindeer Rendezvous is our only available room, and with the blizzard rolling in…”

She gestures vaguely towards the window where snowflakes are now swirling with a vengeance.

As if on cue, Blizzard decides this is the perfect moment to shake himself vigorously, spraying us all with a fine mist of melted snow and dog smell.

“But don’t you fret, my dearies.” Maggie takes the key from me and opens the door. “See? It’s a two-room suite.”

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. My mind races with thoughts of my looming deadline and the relentless pressure from my fans and critics.

When I open them, I fix Maggie with what I hope is a calm, totally-not-freaking-out smile. “So, just to clarify. I’m sharing a suite with Santa Claus here while smelling like a reindeer’s bad night out?”

A twinkle flashes in Nick’s eyes. “Look on the bright side—it’s great material for your next book. The Santa Claustrophobic Christmas: A Tale of Mistletoe and Misunderstandings .”

“That was terrible.”

“I try,” he says with a wink as we file into the suite.

My jaw drops at the horrendously Christmas-spiked interior decorating. The clash of the reds and greens on the upholstery is enough to bring on vertigo for anyone other than the colorblind, and a profusion of antique-shop finds is scattered everywhere else.

“And here is our premium sleeping area.” Maggie gestures to a king-sized bed draped in a quilt that looks like it was stitched together from ugly Christmas sweaters. “Plenty of space to roam underneath the mistletoe mirror.”

Sure enough, mistletoe dangles from a huge mirror mounted directly above the mountain of holiday-themed pillows threatening to avalanche off the bed.

Nick makes a choking sound as I pick up a particularly garish cushion embroidered with ‘Naughty or Nice?’ and Blizzard rises on his haunches, preparing to test the bed’s bounce factor.

“No, Blizzard, down!” Maggie commands ineffectively as Nick, in a surprisingly fast move for a guy in a Santa suit, tackles the overgrown furball mid-leap.

As they tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fur, I toss the ‘Naughty or Nice?’ pillow their way. “I vote Naughty. Though I’m not sure if I mean you or the dog.”

Nick, still wrestling with Blizzard, gives me an eye roll. “Glad to see you’re getting into the holiday spirit, Bennet.”

“Oh, I’m spirited alright. I just hope this inn is stocked with the liquid kind.”

Maggie, completely oblivious to the awkward undercurrents, hums merrily as she opens the connecting door. “And here’s where Santa’s elf sleeps. We call this room Santa’s Shoebox.”

The tiny bare room is devoid of decorations, barely wide enough for a single twin bed that looks about as comfortable as a block of ice. A sad little nightstand hunches beside it, sporting a lamp that could generously be described as blue-light-special if one were feeling charitable.

“Perfect for those hiding from the unwashed masses,” she adds with a wink, patting my shoulder reassuringly.

I peer into the room, half-expecting to see a “Break glass in case of writer’s block” sign on the wall.

“I can take the twin bed.” Nick’s gaze lingers on the ridiculously small bed for a beat too long, and I stifle a laugh.

The “captain’s bed” is more suited to a toddler learning to toilet train—though I suppose being closer to the bathroom might be an advantage for midnight gingerbread cookie-induced emergencies.

“Well,” I say, plastering on my best fake smile, “this is certainly… festive. I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a Christmas tree.”

Nick chuckles. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it—or develop tinsel-induced Stockholm syndrome.”

Maggie beams at us, happy that she’s solved her innkeeper problems. “Blizzard and I will leave you two to settle in. Dinner’s at six in the main dining room. Don’t be late—we’re having reindeer games after.”

As she bustles out, dragging her big dog, whose tail knocks elves from their shelves like a furry wrecking ball, I raise an eyebrow at Nick. “Reindeer games? Please tell me that’s a euphemism for spiked eggnog—on second thought. I’m wearing it already. Never mind.”

He grins, that annoying twinkle back in his eye. “Welcome to Snowfall Inn, where Christmas cheer is mandatory and personal space is optional.”

“Ho, ho, ho. I’m completely out of holiday spirit.

I think I left it back in my apartment, right next to my will to live and my ability to write a decent love scene.

” I fling my coat into a dry-cleaner bag and plop on the sofa in utter exhaustion after my long journey from sunnier climes.

“Since we’re stuck here together, let’s set some ground rules. ”

Nick nods. “Go ahead.”

“First rule: the common area is neutral territory. No hogging the fireplace or the good chair. And by ‘good chair,’ I mean whichever one is farthest from that creepy elf on the shelf.”

He removes his Santa hat and throws it on the chair, claiming it.“Fair enough. Rule two: knock before entering any closed doors. I’ve got a reputation as Santa to uphold.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help a small laugh. “Please. As if I’m going to walk in on anything steamier than you polishing your boots. Though I suppose that could be a euphemism in one of my romance novels.”

He plops down on the armchair and removes his sleek black boots. “Rule three: Keep your door closed while writing steamy scenes. I’d hate to walk in accidentally while you’re trying out positions underneath the mistletoe-hung mirror.”

He makes double quotes with his fingers as he says “hung” before unbelting his Santa suit

I can’t help a small laugh. “Please. My writing is hardly steamy these days. It’s more like lukewarm at best.”

“Perhaps, I can help with some inspiration.” He shrugs off the heavy Santa jacket, revealing a muscled torso wearing a tight white T-shirt.

I wave him off, trying not to stare. “Let’s stick to the rules, Santa. Rule four: no Christmas carols before 10 AM or after 10 PM. And that includes snoring fa-la-la-la-la.”

“Hey, I don’t snore.” He crosses his arms, flexing his now exposed biceps. “Rule five: we each clean up after ourselves in the common areas.”

“Agreed. And finally, rule six: we stay out of each other’s way as much as possible. I came here for peace and quiet, not… whatever this is.”

“This?” He proceeds to unhook the shaggy white beard covering his lips and tosses it aside like Blizzard’s hairpiece. The face revealed is unexpectedly youthful, with a strong jawline and lips that curve into a mischievous smile. “You mean the world’s most unconventional writing retreat?”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in my stomach. “Something like that.”

He throws back his head and laughs, a rich, warm sound that chases away some of the awkwardness. “Those are givens, obviously. I was thinking more along the lines of… no sneaking peeks at your manuscript when you’re not looking.”

I can’t help but smirk, leaning in slightly. “And what if I am looking?”

His eyes widen slightly, a spark of interest flickering in their depths. “Well, in that case, maybe we could arrange a little critique session.”

The warmth in his voice makes my breath hitch. I force myself to lean away, putting some much-needed distance between us.

“We’ll see,” I say, my voice coming out breathier than intended.

A gust of wind rattles the windows, howling ominously.

Tree branches whip among the swirling flurries, the snow falling faster and thicker with each passing moment.

The world outside is rapidly transforming into a whiteout as if Mother Nature decided to shake up our little snow globe with particular enthusiasm.

“Looks like that storm is rolling in,” Nick comments, peering out the window. We might be stuck here for a while.”

I suppress a groan. “Fantastic. Just what I needed. A blizzard of biblical proportions to trap me in Santa’s love nest.”

“Love nest? I thought this was a writer’s retreat.”

“Oh, please.” I gesture around the room. “This place has more mistletoe than a reindeer has ticks. I’ve seen less romantic setups in bodice-rippers.”

“Whoa, dial it back a notch, will you?” He grins, and for a moment, the haunted look in his eyes vanishes. “This isn’t exactly what I signed up for either.”

“Oh, really? Do tell.” There’s clearly more to this muscular Santa than meets the eye.

But as quickly as it appears, the lightness in Nick’s expression fades. The shadow returns to his eyes, and he takes a step back. “It’s… complicated. I should probably go get settled in.”

I watch as he retreats to the tiny icebox of a room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The abrupt withdrawal leaves me alone in the festive explosion of the main suite, feeling as if I’ve accidentally stumbled upon a chapter in someone else’s story.

The writer in me itches to unravel the mystery, to peel back the layers of his character, and I can’t help but chuckle at the irony.

I came here to break my writer’s block, not fall into every cliché I’ve ever written.

A mysterious, handsome stranger with a hidden past?

Check. Forced proximity due to a snowstorm?

Check. The promise of “reindeer games” and mistletoe? Double check.

As I grab my suitcase and get ready to shower off the remnants of my eggnog welcome shower, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a sticky mess, my mascara has run, giving me raccoon eyes, and there’s a distinct aroma of nutmeg emanating from my person.

“Well, Lila,” I mutter to my bedraggled reflection, “you’re certainly making a memorable first impression. Nothing says ‘romance author extraordinaire’ quite like being drenched in holiday cheer and smelling like a Christmas cookie gone wrong.”

I shake my head, reminding myself why I’m really here. I didn’t come to Snowfall Inn to impress anyone, least of all a mysterious Santa-for-hire.

End of Excerpt: To read more, go to Snowbound With Santa