Page 44 of Snowed Inn

He sets the first cookie sheet at the top of the hill, climbs on board, and pushes off.

A second later, he’s flying down, whooping, spinning out at the last second.

“That was epic!” he calls up to me, his ear-to-ear grin making him look so damn happy.

I exhale.

This is reckless. This is stupid.

But something in me wants to be that happy too.

I sit down on the second cookie sheet, Jesse watching from below. My brain scrambles for half a Hail Mary I haven’t needed since eighth grade.

And the moment I let go—I’m flying. I hit the bottom of the hill at warp speed.

It turns out Jesse was right—cookie sheets are ridiculously fast. But what he failed to mention was how you have zero control once you launch yourself down a snowy death slope. How did he manage to make this look easy?

I have no way to steer. No way to slow down. No plan.

The only thing standing between me and total annihilation?

Jesse.

Who is standing directly in my path.

I open my mouth to yell—to warn him, possibly to beg for help—but it’s too late.

I hit him full force, knocking us both into the air before we land in a heap of tangled limbs and snow.

For a second, I can’t move. I’m flat on my back, staring at the overcast sky, waiting for my body to register the damage.

Then . . . a groan.

I blink and turn my head. Jesse is lying beside me, half buried in snow, looking thoroughly winded. His hat is missing, his hair is a mess, and there are snowflakes caught on his lashes.

And somehow—God help me—he’s still grinning.

“Well,” he breathes, rolling onto his side toward me. “That was one hell of a landing.”

I let out a breathless laugh, even though I’m still too stunned to sit up. “I tried to warn you.”

“You did not.”

I shove a handful of snow at his chest. “Okay, well, I thought about warning you.”

His laugh is warm and infuriatingly perfect. “You’re dangerous, Agostini.”

I smirk. “Only when armed with a cookie sheet.”

He arches a brow. Then slowly, without a word, he pushes himself to his feet, scoops up a mound of snow, packs it into a tidy ball, and tosses it lightly at my shoulder. “What about a snowball?”

I gasp, dramatically. He did not just do that. “Oh. It’s on now!” I launch myself up, dive for more snow, and whip a snowball at his chest. It hits with a satisfying puff.

“You dare?” he says, mock scandalized.

I plant my mittened fists on my hips. “You started it, lumberjack.”

He grabs another snowball and ducks behind a pine tree. I scramble behind a log and toss one just as he peeks out. It hits him squarely in the hatless head.