Page 31 of Snowed Inn

I snatch it up, irrationally hopeful it’s Jesse (who doesn’t even have my number).

MONICA: OMG. did u see the picture of me I just posted? i’m giving serious vintage gwen stefani but like . . . cozier?

I slam my phone face down and consider throwing it out the window.

I am spiraling. And no one is here to talk me off the ledge.

My phone buzzes again. For a second I refuse to look at it. But after the next buzz, I angrily snatch it back up and glare at it. It’s not Monica, though. It’s Luca.

Aww, Luca. Always there when I need him.

LUCA: how’s flannel-ville?

ME: call me.

Seconds later, the phone rings.

“Have the holiday cultists got you yet?” he says when I pick up.

“Still no cults. Just . . . emotional instability and inappropriate near kisses with Mr. Flannel. Under mistletoe no less.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “You kissed a guy who makes beer for a living? Maria. Are you okay? What’s our kidnapped code word?”

Luca knows about the beer because I may have texted him a little more about the situation last night. There were a flurry of questions and I admitted to a slight attraction to a certain brewery owner. But the mistletoe stuff is brand new.

“I didn’t kiss him. I almost kissed him. It was the lighting. And the snow. And . . . his face. The code word is Dollywood.”

Luca sounds both relieved and invested. “Okay, it is you. And oh my God. You like him.”

“No, I like his face. And his body. There’s a difference.”

Luca’s quiet for a moment. “Okay. But just remember, the last time you liked a face and a body, you ended up with a guy who thought he was Tag Heuer.”

That earns a laugh from me. “Duly noted.”

“Wait. This guy doesn’t think he’s Sam Adams, does he?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Very well. Carry on. Mistletoe is meant to be taken advantage of.”

I groan. “That’s your advice?”

“For now.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Luca chuckles. “I love you, Ri. Call me after your next almost-kiss. I’ll keep a spreadsheet.”

I hang up and fall asleep to the sound of my own thoughts, some of which involve Jesse and a kitten I may or may not be planning to steal back from him when this is all over.

Sleep does nothing to help. Because . . . dreams. I dream that Jesse shows up at my apartment in the city wearing only a holiday apron tied loosely at his waist, the strings barely keeping it in place. He’s holding a peppermint martini in one hand, the sweet-minty scent wafting toward me, and Christmas the kitten is perched on his broad, bare shoulder. His skin glistens as if he’d just stepped out of the shower, droplets still clinging to his collarbone.

“You left your kitten, principessa,” he says, his deep voice rolling over the words in that way that makes my stomach flutter. His eyes travel down my body, lingering in a way that heats my skin from the inside out.

I intend to say something witty, something that shows I’m not affected by all those rippling muscles on display, but my voice betrays me, coming out like a needy moan. My fingers grip the doorframe to steady myself.

He steps closer, the heat from his body radiating between us. The apron shifts dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-line that disappears beneath the fabric. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.