Page 116 of Snowed Inn

“You can either get out,” I smile sweetly, “or you can sidle up to the bar, enjoy a virgin cosmo, and try not to throw a fit in public.”

The entire VIP Room goes silent for half a second.

Then someone near the bar in the main room gasps. “Is that Monica Moss?”

Immediately, heads turn. Phones lift. Cameras click.

Monica blinks at me, then at the crowd, then slowly lowers her sunglasses and tosses her hair.

“Fine,” she says, like she’s doing me a favor. “But I want the cute red mocktail with the edible glitter.”

Then she flounces off toward the bar, where the bartender looks slightly alarmed but also a little starstruck.

Oh, wow. She’s actually staying. I let out a slow breath.

Jesse slides his hand into mine. “You okay?”

I turn toward him, still smiling. “I’ve never been better.”

He squeezes my fingers. “So . . . does this mean you’re staying?”

I lean in close. “It means I’m home.”

And Jesse, wonderful, scruffy, secretly soft-hearted Jesse, just wraps his arms around me, tucking me in like I’ve always belonged there, and murmurs, “Good. Because I’m not letting you go again.”

Epilogue

October

I never thought I’d be spending so much time in Harvest Hollow—let alone enjoying it.

But here I am.

And apparently, so is half of Instagram.

Ever since Monica Moss’s dramatic mocktail meltdown turned into an unexpected PR gold mine—thank you, strawberry basil fizz and accidental celebrity endorsement—the VIP Room at the Mockingbird has been booked out six months in advance. Never underestimate the power of a celebrity tantrum with good lighting. That’s the kind of kismet you can’t pay for.

I used that publicity as my launchpad.

Two weeks after Monica posted a photo captioned Mocktails, heartbreak, and redemption ♥ #NewEra—which got a million likes in under twenty-four hours—I opened my own PR firm. Just me, no bosses, no red-carpet emergencies. I only take on clients I actually want to work with. People with dreams, not diva demands.

Turns out, this is the kind of PR I’ve always wanted to do—strategy, storytelling, making something great grow.

And speaking of growth? Jesse’s cider line and his mocktails have taken off like fireworks. His brand now has distribution deals, a line of merch, and a dedicated following of sober-curious influencers, Pinterest moms, and at least a couple dozen book clubs. His new pumpkin-spice martini was featured in Bon Appétit this month. Last week, an influencer with half a million followers booked a stay at the inn just to film herself sipping it under the twinkle lights in the food barn. Did I engineer the entire thing? Obviously. PR may have broken my heart, but it’s still my superpower.

Sera wants to hire me to help launch her love potion hot chocolate next. I’m pretty sure I’ll take the job. I mean, convincing the general public there’s an actual love potion for sale out on Long Island? I do love a challenge.

I lean against the stone fireplace and watch the glow flicker across the room while Christmas Eve the cat—yes, that’s the name we settled on, and we call her Cece—snoozes in the velvet armchair beside me. She is the queen of the inn and she knows it. We do our best to keep her away from Ellie.

The whole place smells like cinnamon and baked apples—Sera made a massive batch of apple cider this morning and insists the carafe in the lobby must be refilled every hour until Thanksgiving. The scent lingers, warm and sweet, drifting through the air alongside the faint strains of acoustic Taylor Swift and indie folk playing through the speakers. Ellie and I are currently planning the inn’s (now annual) Autumn Harvest Festival. This year’s event is already shaping up to be even better than last. There’ll be mulled cider, caramel apple stations, hay bale seating, and a pumpkin-carving contest judged by Pumpkin the pug himself—complete with his signature orange pajamas. There’s even talk of a scarecrow dress-up booth and another twilight barn dance under strings of golden lights.

It’s all wildly over the top as usual. I kind of love it. It’s been almost three months since I left. And then came back. On purpose this time.

I still split my time between the city and Harvest Hollow, but I’ve built a life here too. It’s not glamorous. It’s not polished. It doesn’t come with designer gowns or red carpets. But it’s mine. And it’s good. It includes marketing meetings with Jesse, fun theme nights at the Mockingbird, and occasionally sneaking off to kiss behind stacked cider barrels in the food barn like we’re teenagers with secrets. And guess what? Jesse’s already got plans for the Mockingbird on Park. Yep, we’re taking the brand into the city.

My business is making enough these days that I was able to shut down my OnlyFans account. Also—yes, we took a trip to the West Coast to meet my family. I won’t lie—I was nervous to bring him to LA. My family is . . . a lot. Loud, nosy, opinionated. But Jesse? He folded right in like he’d been one of us all along. They absolutely love him.

Jesse helped Nonna make meatballs, let my nieces paint his nails (glitter and all), and played backyard cornhole with my dad like they were already best friends. My mom cried and said he was “so polite, and those arms.”