Page 65 of Snowed Inn

“Friends?” Luca grimaces. “Oh, that’s not good. Did he actually use that word?”

“Yes. I wanted to throw myself out the Airstream window.”

“A solid plan, honestly.” Luca lets out a low whistle. “Oof.”

I groan. “It’s better this way. I know that. We’re not compatible. He’s a man who owns thermals and brews beer for fun. I wear heels to grocery stores and have never been camping.”

“And yet? Still with the face and the body, huh?”

“And the eyes. Hooded. Blue. Eyes,” I sob.

“So you’re in love?”

“No. But he is really great. He reads poetry to a kitten and he listened to my boring stories about my past and seemed to really be interested.”

“But he friend-zoned you,” Luca points out, completely unhelpfully.

I sit up. “I’m not entirely nuts here. He did try to kiss me in the snow once. That time, I pulled away.”

“Look, if this man makes you feel safe, sexy, and seen, maybe stop hiding behind sarcasm and just kiss him.”

I blink at the ceiling. “You think I’m hiding?”

“You always hide. You hide behind ambition. Behind too much work. Behind fancy shoes and brunch plans. But this guy sounds like he sees the real you. And that’s why you’re terrified.”

I don’t say anything for a long beat.

Then, “I miss home.”

“We miss you too. But what if this . . . maybe he’s home too. Just a thought.”

I go still.

Something flutters beneath my ribs, sharp and strange and unwelcome.

Because I know exactly what he means.

Not the beer-brewing or the flannel or the whole tiny-home-in-a-tin-can situation.

But the feeling. The way Jesse makes everything else quiet. The way I breathe easier when he’s around. The way he looked at me tonight, like I was worth hearing. Worth knowing.

It doesn’t feel like fireworks.

It feels like gravity.

And maybe falling wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Chapter 24

December 30 (morning)

I never thought I’d be sitting in an old-timey truck, heading to God-knows-where on a freezing winter morning with Jesse Butler. But here I am, clutching the door handle every time we hit a pothole, which is approximately every ten seconds on this back country road. My breath is making little clouds in the barely heated cabin.

“Where exactly are we going again?” I ask, watching as Harvest Hollow’s charming storefronts give way to increasingly sparse countryside.

Jesse’s jaw tightens slightly. “I told you. I want to show you something.”

I side-eye him. “You’ve been mysteriously vague all morning,” I point out. “And we’ve been driving for almost half an hour. Is this some sort of ‘friends’ thing?”