Page 82 of Snowed Inn

“Aww, shucks.” I push at his shoulder, a little too aware of how easy it is to touch him. “I don’t believe that for one minute, but I’m happy to help. Really.”

He pats the back of his head with one palm. “Yeah, about that . . . I can’t really pay you back right now. But free drinks. Anytime you want. Either place.”

I arch a brow. “Careful, Butler. I take my free drinks very seriously.”

He laughs. “Yeah?”

I lift a shoulder and look back at him over it. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Jesse turns around in a full circle and splays his arms wide. “Wow. Now that I’m standing in here . . . it feels . . . like a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. But you can do it, Jesse.” I cross my arms over my chest and smile at him again. “Besides, don’t tell me the big, bad bar owner with a six-pack and a hero complex doesn’t think he can make his dream happen.”

He laughs, shaking his head. And then, “Wait. Six-pack? How do you know I have a six-pack?”

Oh, shit. I clear my throat and suddenly find something urgent on my phone. “That is none of your business.” I scroll decisively. “First post looks great.”

His eyes glint with something mischievous. “Coming from the woman whose social media accounts look like a full-time job, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I shrug, feigning innocence. “Gotta keep the brand strong. Oh, and next time use a few hashtags. But don’t overdo it.”

He leans in, grinning. “Speaking of social media, may I ask what your OnlyFans account is called?”

I gasp and smack his shoulder, my hand catching on firm muscle, which is . . . deeply unhelpful. “Jesse!”

He barks out a deep, belly laugh, and I swear, it’s annoyingly attractive.

“Oh my God,” I groan. “That account is supposed to be a secret.”

He grins. “What? I’m not telling anyone. It’s just for my personal use. I may have a thing for feet and not know it.”

I narrow my eyes. “I hate you.”

“Nah.” His smile turns easy. “You love me.”

My smile disappears.

I don’t have time to unpack whatever the hell just happened, so I do the only thing I can think of—I look down at my phone again. I scroll too quickly through my Photos app.

“Okay,” I say, clicking through the pictures. “Since we’re on the subject of embarrassing things, I’m gonna show you something no one has ever seen before.”

His head tilts, intrigued. “No one?”

“Well, few people. Very few.”

“Oh?” He looks interested.

I turn my phone toward him. The picture fills the screen. Me, age thirteen. Frizzy hair. Braces. A definitely not stylish sweater vest that my mom forced me to wear.

Jesse grabs my phone, staring at the screen like I just confessed to owning a polyester tracksuit collection—and not ironically.

“Who is that?” he asks, clearly fighting a smile.

“Me,” I moan.

His eyes widen. “What?” He pulls the phone closer to his face. “When?”

“Thirteen.”