Page 107 of Snowed Inn

I pause on a picture, posted by the inn’s account and tagged with his. It must have been taken the night of the party. Jesse’s standing by the bar looking like a snack in that suit, his expression serious but with a hint of something else—a vulnerability around the eyes that makes my chest ache.

I study the photo longer than I care to admit, then close the app and switch to my email.

My boss has sent four messages since I arrived in LA, all with increasing levels of urgency. The firm has a new client. Personally referred by Monica Moss. And she’s demanding that I be her rep or she’ll go elsewhere. She’s already fired two other reps. She wants me specifically. Which means she’s going to be the same type of stuck-up entitled brat Monica is. My boss is not-so-subtly implying that if I don’t get back to New York soon and meet with this girl, my career might suffer.

Three months ago, that would have sent me into a full-blown spiral.

Now?

I just feel tired.

I open a new message and type out an email telling my boss I’ll be back soon.

Then I open a second window and research flights back to New York.

My finger hovers over the “Book Now” button.

If I take the train from JFK, I can be in Harvest Hollow in less than eight hours.

Am I actually considering this? Going back there? For what? To tell Jesse I was wrong? To beg him to forgive me for not trying something that was never going to work anyway?

I close the browser without booking anything.

The truth is, I don’t know what I want. For the first time in my life, I don’t have a ten-year plan. Hell, I don’t even have a five-minute plan. I don’t have any of the next steps mapped out. I just have this feeling—this nagging, persistent feeling that I walked away from something important.

Something real.

I lean my head against the cool glass of the window and watch the palm trees sway in the distance.

For someone who’s made a career out of polishing images and crafting stories, I’ve been remarkably bad at seeing my own truth.

Chapter 41

Three Weeks Later

My week in LA was exactly what I needed. Sunshine, the beach, shopping, and most importantly—family. I spent hours with my nieces, had long talks with my mom, and even managed to go to yoga with my sisters. It was everything I’d been missing.

There was one harrowing moment when my nonna took one look at me, narrowed her eyes, and said, “You’re in love!” Just like that. It was a declaration, not a question. It shook me to my core.

I tried to tell Nonna she was wrong. But she’s always claimed to be a little bit psychic. She didn’t believe me. Hell, I didn’t believe me, but she let it go. Thank God.

While I was in LA, I even met up with Monica Moss—freshly back from the Caribbean—at a trendy Hollywood bar to talk shop. Turns out she went ahead with the bangs, and it ended the same way nearly all bang decisions do. That is to say . . . poorly. She’s as extra in person as she is in text, but Luca tagged along to meet her, and we drank every time she said “Boring!” We had to get an Uber home, but we had fun.

Yep. My West Coast vacation should have been perfect. But all I could think about was Jesse.

Now I’m sitting in a sauna in western Massachusetts with El, because our girls’ spa weekend is officially under way. We planned it ages ago. Pre-blizzard. Pre-Jesse. And we’ve been here exactly five minutes before she brings him up.

“So, what happened with you and Jesse that last day?”

I don’t even hesitate. I’m prepared for this question. “Nothing good.”

El hums, unimpressed. “Yeah, I gathered that much. But what happened? All of us want to know.”

“That inn and orchard are full of nosy people,” I say, scowling.

Ellie adjusts her towel and leans back against the cedar wall. “Who’s arguing that point? Now tell me.”

I sigh, leaning back too, and staring up at the steam drifting toward the ceiling. “Before I answer your question, I have a question of my own.” It’s something I’ve been mulling over for days now.