Page 26 of Snowed Inn

He shakes his head. “I thought you were a high-class lady.”

I snort. “I told you, I’m not.”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between not being rich and willingly eating cranberry sauce in cylindrical form.”

I scoop a big chunk onto my plate and smile sweetly. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“Oh, I like it too,” he says. “I just didn’t figure you would.”

After I serve myself, Jesse loads his plate. As we eat, we talk . . . sans snark. At first it feels weird but pretty soon it becomes . . . strangely comfortable.

“You actually like PR?” he asks, seeming to be genuinely surprised.

“I love it,” I reply. “It’s different every day. I like challenges.” Though I prefer challenges of the non-spoiled-starlet variety.

“That tracks,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s too bad my job has been more social media monitor lately and less about coming up with inventive ways to get people and products amazing publicity. What about you? What do you love about your job?”

Jesse leans back, thinking. “Being my own boss. Creating new drinks. Handling a hundred little things within the space of an hour. I’m never bored. I love that.”

I sip my wine. “What about the customers? Drunks? Aggressive people?”

“Oh, I can handle myself around aggressive drunks.” He laughs but the smile doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Besides, out here it’s mostly loud city folk who just need to walk back to the inn and sleep it off.”

I tilt my head and consider him. “You never wanted to do anything else?”

He hesitates, and I can tell that he’s struggling with what he is going to share. “I was in the army.”

My eyes widen. Honestly, that was the last thing I thought he’d say. “You were?”

“Four years. Got out at twenty-two and went to college.”

“Ah, so you used the army as a stepping-stone for college?”

“Exactly.” He has a seriously intent look on his face. “I only joined so I could pay for school. I knew I wanted to open a brewery someday, but I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. So I did my time, got out, and used the GI Bill to cover a business degree.”

Well, that’s interesting. “Business, huh?”

“Got a bachelor’s in it,” he confirms, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured if I was going to run a brewery, I’d better know more than how to pour a pint. I bartended all through school too—helped pay bills and gave me practice. The plan was always the same: learn the ropes, save every cent, then open my own place. When I heard about the opportunity to manage the brewery out here, I couldn’t pass it up.”

“And then Ellie and Aiden offered to let you buy in,” I add.

“Yep.” He nods. “It’s really worked out great.”

“Do you still want to open your own place one day?” I prod.

He cocks his head to the side and shrugs. “I think about it from time to time.” But the look on his face tells me it’s more often than that.

I stare at him and expel my breath. “Wow. You’re full of surprises, Butler. Truly.”

His grin widens. “You have no idea.”

Uh-oh. Why did that answer make my belly flip?

“The army, a business degree, and you can cook,” I say. He really can. Dinner is . . . shockingly delicious. The turkey juicy, the stuffing savory with a hint of sage, green beans still crisp and flavored with bacon. I’m in love. With the food. Only the food.

I shake off that last unsettling thought and quickly ask him several questions about his time in the army because it’s clearly time to change the subject. Where did he serve? (Fort Drum.) What did he do? (Light infantry.) What was his favorite part? (The sense of camaraderie.) His least favorite part? (Basic training.)