Page 52 of Snowed Inn

Wilkins’s Hardware Store smells like cedar, tobacco, and something slightly metallic, like it’s been absorbing the scent of saw blades for forty years. There is a giant crocheted snowman propped up by the front door. A small bell chimes above the door as we step inside, and I’m immediately hit with the dry heat of an overworked space heater and the distinct sound of someone humming off-key to “Jingle Bell Rock.”

Mrs. Wilkins is perched behind the counter on a rolling stool, a huge ball of yarn resting in a floral-print tote bag by her feet. She’s wearing an emerald-green velour tracksuit and appears to be crocheting a squid? An octopus? Something with entirely too many limbs.

“Afternoon!” she calls brightly, not looking up from her work. “Careful in aisle three. Floorboard’s still loose from when Hank tried to ride the dolly like a skateboard. Fool almost took out the entire plunger display.”

“Good to know,” Jesse mutters, steering me past a precarious tower of rock salt. He introduces me to Mrs. Wilkins, who also eyes me like I’m the heroine in a rom-com.

“So, you’re Maria,” she says. It is not a question.

How does everyone already know about me? Is there a Harvest Hollow group chat? Is the Hot Sheet that detailed?

I nod. “That’s me.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “My husband and I own this place.”

“Oh? Where’s Mr. Wilkins?” I ask.

“He’s at Layla’s,” she replies, still crocheting the thing with what look like googly eyes. “He’s there every day from two to five. Thinks I don’t know he’s just goin’ for pie and flirting with Layla over liverwurst sandwiches.”

“Romantic,” I say, pressing my lips together.

“Can’t blame him,” Mrs. Wilkins adds. “I’d flirt with her too. That lady makes a mean peach cobbler.”

Jesse smothers a laugh, and we disappear into one of the back aisles, surrounded by screws, garden hoses, and shelf brackets. He moves with the ease of someone who knows exactly where everything is, scanning the shelves for whatever mysterious brewery-related items he’s after.

I trail behind him for a minute, then reach out and touch his arm gently. He smells like pine and soap. It’s wildly unfair. I’m trying to have a serious conversation, and this man is out here smelling like a sexy lumberjack commercial. But I can’t let that distract me, there’s something I have to say to him.

“Hey.”

He turns. “Yeah?”

I glance around to make sure Mrs. Wilkins and her many-limbed yarn creature can’t hear us.

“It’s not true, you know,” I say quietly.

He tilts his head. “What’s not?”

“That I’m too good for you.” I haven’t been able to get those words out of my head since he said them. And I also can’t stop remembering what he said about girls not sticking around with guys like him.

His eyes search mine, serious, the teasing is gone.

“I don’t believe it,” he says after a second.

I expel my breath.

Then he steps closer. “I know it.”

Wait. What? My heart clenches. I swallow. “That’s not how I see it.”

He exhales, long and slow. “Maria.”

“I mean it.” My voice drops, earnest now. “I’m not better than you.”

“How do you know that? You don’t know me that well.”

I shrug and wave my hand in the air. “I know enough. You’re kind. You took in a stray kitten. You make people laugh. You help out at the inn. You give random women rides into town. You’re a good guy, Jesse.”

He looks away, then back again. His cheeks are slightly flushed.