Page 42 of Snowed Inn

I’m there, El replied, adding a plunger and bucket emoji, which made me laugh.

Even though the snowfall has finally stopped, there are still huge piles of it on the ground.

I attempt to cross the drifts with dignity, but there’s no such thing as graceful movement in knee-deep snow—just determined stomping.

Jesse fires up the snowmobile. The deep, rumbling sound sends a thrill through me, but I school my expression into something vaguely unimpressed.

“You ready?” he calls.

“I guess,” I mumble, eyeing the frost-covered contraption with suspicion.

I finally reach him and plant my mitten-covered hands on my hips. “Why do you have a snowmobile anyway? I thought we were going sledding.”

“We are going sledding, but we’ll get there faster on this thing.” He pats the top of the windshield. “Like it? Miller let me borrow it.”

“Nice,” I say, though I’m still assessing.

“Hop on.”

I blink. “Hop on? Like . . . where?”

“The back.” He scoots forward, leaving just enough room for me to straddle the seat behind him.

I hesitate. I’ve never been on a snowmobile before. What’s the etiquette here? Is there a polite amount of personal space I’m supposed to keep?

“Okay,” I say, and swing a leg over the seat, settling in as best I can.

Then he says it.

“Wrap your arms around my waist. It’ll be safer that way.”

I know I should just do it, but there’s a small problem. I spent a solid half hour last night trying to unsee Jesse’s abs. And now they are right in front of me, dangerously within reach.

I swallow and gingerly slide my arms around him. My hands land under his coat, against his shirt, against—oh, holy hell.

Yep. That’s an actual six-pack. I hate it here.

Jesse must feel my hesitation because he chuckles. “You can hold on tighter than that. I don’t bite.”

Oh, I bet you do.

But I am not engaging with lust-driven thoughts. Instead, I grip my own wrist, locking myself in place.

“Don’t drive so fast that I fly off,” I warn him.

“No promises!”

The snowmobile roars beneath us, the engine buzzing through my whole body, and we zip away. Cold air slaps my cheeks, sharp and stinging, but instead of panic there’s a rush—like being on a roller coaster without rails. We’re flying low across the white and Jesse leans left, then right, steering with an easy confidence that makes me squeeze his waist tighter. The solid heat of his back seeps into me through all the layers, anchoring me against the wild speed. My heart’s racing, my stomach swooping, and the mix of adrenaline and his steady control makes me laugh out loud, the sound torn away by the wind.

I should be panicking, but instead it’s fun.

Really fun.

And so is feeling his abs.

If I slid my hand under his shirt right now—

Nope. Nope. I am not doing that.