Page 105 of Snowed Inn

“You expecting a call?”

I startle, nearly spilling my wine as Luca appears beside me, leaning against the patio railing. He has that knowing smirk that older brothers perfect sometime around middle school and never quite outgrow.

“No,” I say, quickly tucking my phone into my pocket. “Just checking emails.”

“Uh-huh.” Luca takes a sip of his wine, studying me over the rim. “So, you never told me, what’s Mr. Flannel’s name?”

“Oh, that?” I wave a hand in the air, doing my best to feign nonchalance. “That was nothing. It’s over already.”

“So you’re really gonna pretend that he’s not the reason you’ve been moping around since you got here? Or the reason you keep staring at your phone like it might bite you?”

I scoff, but it comes out weak. “I’m not moping.”

“Maria.” Luca gives me his stop-bullshitting-me look. “I’ve known you your entire life. You haven’t complained about a single thing since you arrived—not Mom’s interrogation about your love life, not Sofia stealing your favorite jacket, not even Dad’s terrible jokes. That’s not you.”

I take a gulp of wine instead of answering.

“Plus,” he continues, relentless, “you keep zoning out. At dinner last night, Mom asked if you wanted more spaghetti and you just stared at the wall. For like, a full minute.”

I close my eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Does Nothing have a name?”

I sigh, opening my eyes to look out at the familiar view—the carefully manicured lawn, the pool that Dad spent ten years saving for, the lemon tree that Mom insists on keeping even though it’s never produced one lemon. It’s the backdrop of a thousand childhood memories. I should feel comforted. Steady.

Instead, I feel completely unmoored.

“Jesse,” I finally admit, so quietly I’m not sure Luca even hears it.

But he does. He always does.

“Jesse,” he repeats, testing the name. “And what did Jesse do?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. He did nothing. That’s the problem.”

Luca waits, patient in a way only older siblings of stubborn people can be.

“He’s . . . different,” I finally say. “He drives me crazy. He’s not my type at all. In addition to the flannel, he wears a stupid ball cap and he says exactly what he thinks and he . . .” I trail off, my throat newly tight. “He thinks he’s not good enough for me.”

Luca’s mouth pulls into a small frown of disbelief. “Is that true?”

“No.”

“Then why does he think that?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s all wrong for me.” The words burst out louder than I intended. I lower my voice. “He lives in a tiny town with one stoplight, and he runs a brewery and he’s nothing like the guys I date.”

“The guys you date”—Luca blinks at me—“are all assholes.”

I glare at him.

“What? They are. Every single one of them.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “Trevor left you. Matt forgot your birthday. Derek was a pathological liar. That Wall Street guy—”

“Brad.”

“Brad flirted with your coworkers. So forgive me if I’m not seeing the downside of someone different.”

Luca’s not wrong. My track record with men hasn’t been exactly winning. But Jesse made me want the kind of closeness I’ve been running from for years, and that terrifies me as much as it excites me.