Page 50 of Snowed Inn

A wide smile covers my face. “I left it in my room,” I announce proudly.

“No!” He looks positively scandalized, and it makes me laugh. We keep talking—about nothing, about everything—and somewhere along the way, the miles slip past faster than they should. So when we finally roll into town, I am not prepared.

I mean, I should have been. I know Harvest Hollow is small. I’ve been here before. But still, when Jesse parks along a twinkly-light-lined street that’s straight out of a Christmas movie, I stare.

It’s a total Christmas wonderland. In addition to the lights, there are adorable little shops with brick facades and wreaths on every door. Real evergreen garland is strung along the old-fashioned black streetlights. There are carols being played from speakers along the carefully shoveled stone walkways and candles in all the shop windows, their warmth glowing out onto the cobblestones.

“It’s so cute here,” I say as I hop out of the truck and make my way to the sidewalk.

Jesse glances around. “Yeah, it’s cozy. Isn’t it?”

I tuck my mittened hands into my back pockets. “So, where’s the pharmacy?”

“Mrs. Goldman’s place is at the end of the street,” he says, pointing a gloved finger.

“This is all there is, right?” I ask, craning my neck, taking in the handful of shops lining both sides of the street. “There’s no Costco out here either, is there?”

He rolls his eyes, “Oh my God, relax. There’s a Costco like twenty minutes away in Riverhead. We’re still on Long Island.”

“Well, I don’t know!”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Come on, city girl. Let me show you around.”

We have to navigate over some seriously high snow drifts, but as soon as we make it to the sidewalk, Jesse’s greeted like some kind of local celebrity. Everyone knows him. Shopkeepers nod, people call out his name, and I even catch a few curious glances flicking my way.

And then, because apparently this town is a sitcom, a woman in the pharmacy leans out the walk-up window and calls, “Jesse Butler, who’s your friend?”

He sighs. “Here we go.”

I grin. “Am I about to become gossip blog famous?” El’s mentioned the Harvest Hollow Hot Sheet to me. Apparently, it’s a website where one of the townspeople spills all the tea about everyone. It sounds both adorable and informative.

“Oh, definitely,” Jesse replies. “Let’s go.”

The pharmacy is one of those old-school places that smells like menthol and lavender, with shelves of greeting cards, a rotating sunglasses rack, and a section labeled “Locally Made” that contains everything from goat milk soap to crocheted baby hats. It’s also warm. Thank God.

The bell over the door jingles as we walk in, and behind the counter stands an older woman with big hair, sparkly green glasses, and a heather-gray sweatshirt that says “Pharmacists Do It with Precision.” She pokes at her hairdo with one long, red fingernail and narrows her eyes at us.

“Well, look who it is,” she says in a thick Long Island accent. “Jesse Butler and his mystery date.”

I open my mouth to correct her, but Jesse gets there first.

“Not a date, Mrs. Goldman. This is Maria. Ellie’s friend. We’re running errands.”

“Errands,” she repeats, not even trying to hide her skepticism. “Uh-huh. And I’m the queen of England. Ya think I didn’t hear all about your sledding adventure yesterday? This town talks, honey.”

I blink. “Wow. That was fast.” And a little creepy.

“Harvest Hollow news travels faster than a reindeer on espresso,” she says, tapping the register keys like she’s launching missiles. “By the way, I already sent a care package over to Ellie and Aiden’s place—some zinc lozenges, Vicks, herbal tea, and those honey lemon cough drops Aiden likes. Told Donny to leave it on the porch and call first so he doesn’t get the flu. God knows half the town would have to shut down if Donny took a sick day.”

“That was nice of you,” Jesse replies.

“Ah, it was the least I could do,” Mrs. Goldman says, waving a hand. “Now what can I get you, dearie? Something for the brewery or are you just here to pick up condoms and hope for the best?”

Jesse turns the color of cranberry gelatin. “I need hand sanitizer,” he coughs. “For the bar. And kitty litter.”

“Sure ya do.” Her eyes sparkle, and her grin says she’s already mentally texting three friends about it.

Before I can recover from that delightful exchange, another voice pipes up from the other aisle. “Wait—Jesse? Is that you?”