Page 87 of Snowed Inn

He’s wearing a black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a smooth black tie, and I think my brain short-circuits for a moment because I have literally never seen him dressed up like this before. I thought he looked good in flannel? That was a joke. This is devastating. Next-level, shut-it-all-down, God-save-me levels of hot. I’m blushing so bad, I actually have to look away for a second and take a sip of my champagne to get my thoughts under control. I can’t believe I ever thought he wasn’t my type. Jesse can fit in in Manhattan or the countryside or anywhere else he wants to be.

I’m wearing my little red corset cocktail dress—the one I originally picked out for LA before I got snowed in here—but somehow, I still feel at home in this glittering barn.

But all I can think about is Jesse in that suit.

And what it might feel like to undo that black tie.

I sip my champagne again and try to keep my focus on El. She’s thanking me for the millionth time for staying and helping, and I assure her, once again, that I wanted to stay. That it wasn’t a sacrifice. That I actually had—dare I say it—fun.

But I can’t concentrate because my body is on high alert. Jesse is somewhere close. I can feel him. Like a magnet pulling me in before I’ve even seen him again. And when I finally do glance in his direction, it’s like the air is sucked from the room. He’s standing just a few paces away, watching me with those impossibly blue eyes. His intent is clear. He wants to talk to me.

I swallow hard.

Ellie, sensing my distraction, follows my gaze and makes a quiet hmm sound before excusing herself with the grace of someone who knows when to get lost.

Jesse steps forward. He smells like firewood and soap. If he keeps it up, I’m going to need a chaperone.

He doesn’t speak right away, just bows slightly. “Ms. Agostini,” he says, his voice smooth, teasing.

I nod back, mirroring his formal tone. “Mr. Butler.”

He glances at his watch. “It’s almost midnight.”

When he asks me to dance, I think my soul actually leaves my body for a second.

He asked me to dance once before. Last October at the Autumn Harvest Festival, and I told him—rudely—that I wouldn’t dance with him if he were the last man on earth. I’m positive we’re both remembering it right now.

But tonight?

Tonight, I smile and say, “It would be my pleasure.”

He doesn’t hesitate, offering his arm. I slide my hand over it, the contact sparking something low and undeniable as I let him lead me to the floor. The orchestra starts playing “At Last”—a classic—and the melody swirls around us as Jesse pulls me into his arms.

Turns out, Jesse can dance.

It’s nothing fancy, but he knows how to lead, and my body follows his movements without hesitation. It feels natural, like something we’ve done a hundred times before even though we haven’t. I feel every breath he takes, every shift of his body, every press of his fingertips against my waist.

And I’m dizzy.

Not from the champagne. Not from the twirling. But from Jesse. From the slow, building burn between us, from the unspoken words in his gaze, from the way his hands rest just lower than they should, his thumb brushing against the fabric of my dress at my back.

The music swells, and we slow to a near standstill, our steps barely there as the entire barn starts counting down from ten. The whole world is seconds away from a brand-new year, and I’m standing in the middle of the dance floor with Jesse Butler, staring at his lips and knowing exactly what’s about to happen.

“Five . . . four . . . three . . .”

The air crackles between us.

“Two . . .”

We exchange a look—

“It is New Year’s Eve,” his low voice murmurs, like he can read my thoughts.

“One!”

And then his mouth claims mine.

It’s a rush of heat. Instant and burning.