Page 32 of Snowed Inn

My fingertips brush against his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my touch. Our bodies are so close now I feel his breath quicken.

Then the kitten leaps from his shoulder, lands on my head, and starts purring loudly—directly into my ear, the vibrations breaking through the haze of desire.

I wake up in a cold sweat, my body still tingling with phantom sensations, to find myself panting like I just got off the treadmill at the gym. But the ache Jesse left behind lingers, my body still humming with want for something that was never truly there.

“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself.

The sun hasn’t even risen yet, and I know I’m not getting back to sleep. I get up, shuffle into the kitchen, make the world’s strongest coffee, and stare out the frosty window.

The snow is still falling. The world is still quiet.

And Jesse Butler is still dangerously close to taking over the top spot from Monica Moss and becoming the biggest complication in my life. Because . . . turns out? I want him. Bad.

Chapter 11

December 26

Turns out I was able to get back to sleep again. At least for a couple hours . . . but I wake up to three things:

The faint scent of coffee and cinnamon drifting up from somewhere downstairs.

The rhythmic scrape of someone shoveling snow outside.

Fifteen pings from my phone—which I already know are from Monica Moss, because who else would unleash a digital onslaught before eight a.m. the day after Christmas?

I roll over and grab the phone like it’s a ticking glitter bomb about to detonate all over my peaceful morning. One glance confirms it: Monica, all fifteen times. Of course.

Outside, snow is still flying sideways in that charming “You’re not going anywhere today, sucker” sort of way.

MONICA: babe?

MONICA: r u alive?

MONICA: i feel like my energy is off.

MONICA: just read that gemini moons are prone to overthinking—explain??

MONICA: also, have we finalized that Vogue pull quote?

MONICA: and should I get bangs?

I groan and drop the phone face down on the quilt like it’s contaminated, when another text comes in. This time from El.

EL: hey, i’m still sick. do u think u might be able to help charlotte run the inn today? u know I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate. 🙏

No problem, I immediately text back.

Feel better, I finish, before hopping out of bed to choose the perfect ensemble for being a holiday innkeeper.

The universe obviously has a sense of humor, because it sure looks like I’m spending another day at the Honeycrisp Orchard Inn.

I go with jeans, a gray cable knit, and some cute chestnut boots. When I make it downstairs, Charlotte is already behind the front desk in a perfectly festive sweater featuring a gingerbread man mid-fainting spell. Her hair is in space buns, and she’s humming Mariah Carey like it’s still Christmas Eve.

“Good morning!” she says brightly. “You’re up early. For someone on vacation.”

“Nope,” I reply, stepping behind the desk with her. “I’m testing out a new personality.”

“Ooh. What flavor?”