Page 46 of Snowed Inn

There’s no room for anything else—not stress, not responsibility, not whatever weird moment almost happened between us earlier. It all gets lost in the snow. And the fun.

At one point, I land face-first in a drift, pop up spitting snow, and Jesse laughs so hard he falls over sideways.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this. Not just a chuckle or a polite giggle, but the real kind—deep and unfiltered, the kind that warms your ribs from the inside out.

We’re soaked and freezing, but honestly? I’ve never had so much fun before noon.

When we finally make our way back to the snowmobile, I’m happily anticipating clutching Jesse’s abs again.

Just before he takes a seat, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket, frowns, and groans. “Crap.”

“What?”

“Goat emergency.”

I blink. “That’s not something people say.”

He quickly puts the cookie sheets away and straddles the snowmobile. “Miss Guinevere broke out of the barn. Again.”

“Wait—who?”

“Charlotte’s favorite goat. Also the most dramatic animal on this entire property.”

Oh, yeah, the heavily insured tackle goat. I climb on behind him and within a few minutes, we’ve zipped across the snow to the animal barn, where chaos reigns.

Miss Guinevere is prancing around the courtyard with the energy of a caffeinated toddler, knocking over holiday displays and scattering terrified chickens like leaves.

Charlotte, who is decked out in an adorable pink snowsuit, stands on a hay bale, waving her arms. “SHE’S HEADING FOR THE CIDER SHED!”

Jesse leaps into action. “Maria, try to cut her off from the right!”

I make a small, incredulous sound. “Do I look like I know how to herd a goat?”

“You’ve got this, city girl. I believe in you.”

Before I can object, Miss Guinevere makes a beeline toward a stack of folding chairs propped against the barn wall. I dart sideways, trying to intercept her.

The goat locks eyes with me, flares her nostrils, and charges.

“OH GOD—”

I sidestep, kind of, but she clips me anyway—headbutting me into a pile of snowy hay and knocking the wind out of my lungs.

I cough, groan, and stare up at the sky.

“Why,” I wheeze, “is this my life?”

Suddenly Jesse is there, grabbing the goat by the collar and expertly steering her back toward a nearby pen.

“You good?” he calls.

“Define good,” I croak, still splayed out in the hay like a farmer’s snow angel. Jesse returns and helps me up. I try not to notice how gentle his fingers are as he brushes hay out of my hair. I try not to notice how close his mouth is to mine when he leans in, just a tilt away from trouble once more. And I really try not to notice the flicker of concern in his eyes, because if I do, I might start to believe he actually cares. But most of all I try not to notice that I feel far more undone by him than I did by the goat.

“Sit for a sec,” he says, carefully guiding me back down to sit on the hay like I’m made of spun sugar. “Let me check for broken bones. That goat hit you hard.”

I give him a look that I hope is edged with sarcasm. “Are we doing field triage now?”

“Humor me.” His hands are warm and strong as he gently runs his fingers over my leg, inspecting for bruises or breaks with surprisingly competent care. When he moves down to my ankle, his thumb brushes a spot that makes me shiver.