Page 15 of Snowed Inn

“Thanks, babe,” Aiden says, laughing.

We finish our dinner with no more talk of apologies or snarky comments from Butler. After we’re through, everyone moves into the living room to sit by the fire. When they all settle in to watch a Christmas movie, it’s my chance. I quietly disappear upstairs to change my clothes, then I come back down and slip into the kitchen, determined to start on the dishes.

The last thing I expect?

Jesse. Standing at the sink with his sleeves rolled up.

Chapter 5

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice dripping with suspicion. The candlelight flickers off Jesse’s sharp features, and I force myself to look away. I am not about to let the romantic glow of dirty dishes mess with my head.

He looks equally surprised to see me. “What are you doing?”

“I’m washing the dishes,” I say, pointing to my clothing as if changing out of my cocktail dress is all the explanation needed.

He gives me a slow once-over, his gaze lingering in amusement. “Wow. I didn’t think you were serious. You own sweats?”

“They’re designer,” I snap. Technically true. My red-and-white polka dot lounge set—festive for Christmas—was a gift shop find from a five-star hotel in the Swiss Alps. But that’s not the point.

And as far as I’m concerned, the sink is a battlefield. Bubbles swirl around the greasy, food-encrusted pots like tiny, taunting adversaries. A towering stack of plates looms on the counter, daring anyone to take them on. And I’m determined that it’s going to be me. I refuse to give Ball Cap another reason to call me out for being a princess.

Besides, at least this kind of chaos is real. Tangible. Not like the manufactured fire drills of influencer breakdowns and made-up drama I am used to juggling daily these days.

I find a Christmassy apron on the back of the pantry door—green with little white snowflakes sprinkled across it like confetti—tie it around my waist, and roll up my sleeves. Then, with a perfectly executed hip-check, I knock Jesse out of the way and take my rightful place at the sink.

“What’d ya do that for?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t need your help.”

He snorts. “You want to wash these dishes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” He’s completely skeptical and it’s infuriating.

Feigning calm, I peer under the sink and pull on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, grab a ball of steel wool, and start scrubbing the biggest pot, determined to ignore him.

“You know you could screw up some of this stuff if you don’t wash it correctly,” he continues, arms crossed over his chest like he’s the king of dishwashing.

“Oh, please,” I groan. “Why don’t you mansplain dishwashing to me while I work?”

“I’m not mansplaining,” he grumbles.

“Mansplainers never think they’re mansplaining. That’s literally part of the definition.”

His lips twitch, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Look, I’m just trying to help.”

I don’t look up from the pan. “You think I’m completely incompetent, don’t you?”

He takes off his hat and rubs a hand through his hair. “It’s okay, you know. Some people are just . . . made for fancy things. And some people aren’t.”

I freeze mid-scrub. Oh, hell no.

“You actually think I’m rich,” I say slowly.

He shrugs. “You wore designer to a friendly Christmas Eve dinner.”

I set the scrubber down and turn to face him. “Let’s get something straight, Ball Cap. I am not rich.”