Page 115 of Snowed Inn

“Of course I did.” I pull out my phone and frame him up in the low lighting of the VIP Room.

“This is what success looks like.” My smile widens. “And being hot doesn’t hurt.”

Click.

Chapter 44

I’m still slightly breathless from kissing Jesse again when the double doors to the VIP Room fly open like a reality show contestant just got dumped via text.

“MARIA AGOSTINI!”

The shriek cuts through the low hum of voices like a siren. Jesse jolts beside me. My heart jumps so hard I nearly knock over my mock champagne. Heat spikes across my chest and neck. Not from fear—but fury.

I turn, already knowing exactly who I’ll see.

Monica Moss. Hollywood’s darling. Wearing sunglasses indoors, a red, white, and blue crop top that might qualify as a napkin, and a rage expression usually reserved for Oscar snubs.

She storms toward me, phone in hand.

“I cannot believe you have been ignoring me!” she snaps. “I had to find out you were here from your friend’s Instagram Story!” She waves her phone. “Why didn’t you answer me? Do you even understand what I’ve been going through?!”

I calmly blink. “Monica, it’s a Saturday night.”

“I know that!” she practically shrieks. “And I’ve texted you TWENTY-FOUR TIMES. I’m in a full-blown crisis, Maria. I need you!”

Jesse tenses beside me. I can feel him watching, waiting.

“What kind of crisis?” I ask, already regretting it.

Monica leans in, voice deadly serious. “The lip color for my Labor Day photo shoot came back two shades too chocolate. I can’t wear that. It’ll wash me out. My brand could be RUINED.”

I stare at her. My brain tries to compute whether this is real life or an unhinged TikTok livestream.

She stares back.

And in that moment, something inside me . . . breaks free.

I don’t snap. I don’t yell. I don’t throw my mock champagne in her face (though God, that would be satisfying). Instead, I laugh. Just a quiet, stunned, soul-deep laugh.

Because: If this is my life . . . I don’t want it anymore.

Jesse’s still beside me, frozen like he thinks he’s about to lose me to this drama tornado in platform heels.

But—no. He’s not. Not anymore.

My pulse pounds, but for the first time tonight, it’s not from nerves. It’s clarity. Sharp and sudden. Like stepping into sunlight. I turn to look at him, still smiling. “I think I just figured it out, Ball Cap.”

A small smile curves his mouth, slow and hopeful. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I love PR. Or I used to. But not this version. Not the part where I’m on call twenty-four seven for crises that are literally lipstick.” I gesture around the room. “What I loved was this. Giving you those tips. Helping build something real. Telling a story that matters. Creating buzz because people care—not because someone fake-cried online.”

His eyes flicker with something warm and unguarded—then, slowly, that irresistible grin spreads across his face. “So what are you saying?”

I turn back to Monica, who looks personally offended that I haven’t combusted under the weight of her drama.

“Monica,” I say calmly, “you have two options.”

She blinks, clicking her heel on the floor. “Excuse me?”