Page 73 of Snowed Inn

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“What? Me? No.” But I am definitely tipsy. Only I’m not admitting it because admitting you’re tipsy is not something tipsy people do, and anyway, I don’t like admitting anything I don’t have to. I really should have been a lawyer.

Jesse nods. “Yes. You are.”

I do my best to steady my voice. “Why do you think so?”

“Because you just told me the cider is good. You’ve never admitted that before.”

I purse my lips. “Can’t I pay you a compliment? We’ve got a truce, Mister.”

He gives me full side-eye.

“Come closer,” I say, tweaking my finger at him.

He still looks suspicious, but he does move closer to my face.

“Closer,” I demand.

He moves even closer until his nose is about two inches from mine. The way he looks at me, the way he keeps getting close—close enough that I think he’s finally going to kiss me—and then doesn’t. It’s torture. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t even visit my damn kitten without thinking about him. And I’ve had enough.

“I have an idea,” I say.

“What?” There’s a wary note in his voice, like he’s bracing for impact.

I dip my chin and lower my voice to what I hope is a sexy whisper. “I think we should kiss.”

“What?” He shoots back up to his full height.

“Shh.” I press my finger to my lips and motion him back down with my hand. “Hear me out.”

He slowly moves back into place. “Okay, why should we kiss?”

Damn. Why does his voice sound so sexy?

“Because we both want to,” I say. This sounded so much more reasonable in my head a few minutes ago. Why is it sounding bananas now? “Just one time,” I press. “One time. To get it out of our systems.”

I saved it at the end there. It sounded much less crazy when I pointed out that it would only be one lousy time. Except I know it’s a lie. If one brush of his fingers can undo me, one kiss is only going to wreck me more. And yet I still want it. More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

“You think we should kiss?” he repeats, and the low thrum of his voice does something to my middle. “To get it out of our systems?”

“Correct.” I nod vigorously. “I bet you can kiss too.” I grin and lean in a fraction. “I mean, unless you’re scared you can’t handle it.”

That earns me a slow, delicious once-over.

I’m only vaguely aware that I am saying things out loud that I wouldn’t if I hadn’t had so much cider.

“You know what?” His voice remains deep and husky and goes to my core. “You’re right.”

Oh, damn. That easily? “You’re scared?”

“Not even.”

Ooh. “So, what am I right about?” I’m trying to logic through this thing. But logic and cider are natural enemies.

“You’re right that I know how to kiss.” He slowly lifts his finger and gently rubs the tip along my bottom lip. He’s staring at my mouth. This guy knows how to flirt. Is that because he’s a bartender? Don’t they all know how to flirt? Do they teach it in bartending school? “Then kiss me,” I say, and I try to wave my hand through the air like I’m chill and breezy and entirely unaffected.

But I am affected, and it’s not breezy. It’s not even a breeze-adjacent wave.