Page 57 of Snowed Inn

There are some thumps and bumps from the back of the truck and then Donny appears at Jesse’s window. Jesse rolls it down. “No thanks, Donny,” Jesse says.

“But the town council is paying me to make things more wintery out here,” Donny explains.

“What?” I cannot help it. Did he truly just say that?

“It’s cool,” Jesse continues. “You can dump snow on someone else’s windshield.”

“Hardly anyone’s out today,” Donny argues.

“Take the afternoon off, Donny,” Jesse tells him. “God knows you deserve it.”

Donny slinks off down the street with his bucket, looking none too happy, and Jesse turns toward me. “So, that’s Harvest Hollow for you.”

As the heat starts to blow, I wave my mittens in front of the vents. “That was—I’m just gonna say it—nuts.”

“Yeah, Donny’s a character. Hell, half this town are characters.”

“More than half,” I assure him.

We pull out of the parking spot and Jesse turns the truck to head back to the inn. “I gotta be honest,” he says. “That kind of felt like a date.”

Uh. Um. What? My pulse trips. I try to laugh but no sound comes out. This is exactly how it starts—the easy banter, the heat, that dizzying sense of possibility. An unexpected date. I’ve been here before, and it ended with me blindsided and humiliated. Ever since, I’ve chosen safer men, the ones I never had to risk anything real on. Safer doesn’t equal better, but at least it doesn’t hurt. I somehow know instinctively that if I start something with Jesse it’s not going to end casually. Not on my part, at least.

We drive back in mostly silence, but my brain is a blizzard. I no longer care about asking where he lives. All I can think is . . . Jesse was joking about the date. Right?

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I tell myself I don’t care.

But the whole way back to the inn, I replay his words over and over again . . .

And I know I’m lying.

Chapter 20

By the time we make it back to the inn, I can’t get away from Jesse fast enough. That date comment threw me, and the more I think about it, the more I am thrown. I quickly thank him for driving me to town and for lunch, and he takes off toward the food barn while I go into the inn to tell Charlotte I’m back. Pumpkin is there snoring behind the front desk.

Thank God Charlotte has rooms ready for me to clean, because if I have to sit still, I might start reorganizing the Lawsons’ pantry by expiration date. I hustle upstairs to the second floor, ready to throw myself into something—anything—productive.

Mila’s already there, and this time I only have to ask her a few questions before I get going. Progress.

I time myself in each room like it’s an Olympic event, and I definitely beat my records from earlier this week. Still, I don’t rush anything that matters—I make the bed like I’d want it made, double-check the corners of the bathroom, and make sure everything smells like fresh linen and not . . . effort.

El’s given me the full TED Talk on how good reviews are basically gold in the hospitality world. The inn has five stars on some of the biggest travel sites, and I’ll be damned if it drops to 4.9 on my watch.

As I clean, I think about our outing into town earlier. Harvest Hollow is, in a word, ridiculous. Ridiculously charming, ridiculously adorable, and if I’m being honest, ridiculously effective at worming its way under my skin. The whole town looks like it’s been designed by someone who drank too much cocoa and watched White Christmas on a loop.

And then there’s Jesse.

I have to admit he’s proven to be pretty darn likable. In fact, over the course of the last few days, he’s completely changed my mind about my initial reaction to him. He apologized for being an ass, dried the dishes, cooked me dinner, taught me how to fix a leaky pipe, helped out at the inn like he’s a freakin’ handyman, and took me sledding because he knew I was bored. He even adopted an orphaned Christmas kitten.

I further have to admit that what he said today—how he promised he had never cheated on anyone—was like the final nail in the coffin of my ill opinion of him. I’ve spent the last five days telling myself that he has to have the same issues all the other men I’m attracted to do, but I’ve seen no sign of it. Different clothes. Different demeanor. I mean, he’s a bartender, for heaven’s sake. Okay, fine—an educated, entrepreneurial one, which isn’t not hot, but still. Definitely not my usual type. So why am I so ridiculously attracted to him if he isn’t wrong for me?

It also didn’t help that he seemed totally vulnerable and serious when he told me he didn’t think he was good enough for me.

And it’s not just the nice things Jesse’s done or his indisputable hotness. It’s the way he ordered grilled cheese and tomato soup. Watching him take something so simple and make it look confident, even a little sexy? It made me want to roll my eyes and lean across the table to kiss him at the same time. Which is hugely problematic. Because kissing Jesse would not be just a kiss—it would be a line crossed, a dam broken. I am not here for romance. I am here for . . . Vacation? Helping El? Learning how to run an inn?

Whatever. It’s definitely not to fall for the gorgeous, flannel-wearing brewery owner who somehow makes me laugh even when I don’t want to, that’s for sure.

And yet, sitting there in that too-cozy diner, with the scent of eggnog shakes and tater tots in the air, his knee brushing mine, and him smelling like whatever they pump into men’s grooming ads during the holidays, I had the sudden, ridiculous urge to lean in. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Once I kiss him, it won’t be the last time. I already know that. I feel it.