Page 16 of Snowed Inn

Jesse tilts his head. He still looks skeptical. “Not rich rich, or not rich at all?”

I inhale sharply, mentally preparing myself for the fact that I’m about to overshare. But we need to clear this up. “I went to Catholic school for thirteen years on a need-based full scholarship and worked my way through college. My job from freshman year of high school through my first year of college was scrubbing pots in a school cafeteria. I probably have more dishwashing experience than you do, so don’t act like I can’t handle a few pans.”

Jesse’s eyes narrow further. I can tell he still doesn’t want to believe me. “You scrubbed pots?”

I shrug. “You haven’t lived until you’ve spent two hours trying to scrape off baked-on lasagna from St. Agnes’s kitchen in Lincoln Heights.”

He shakes his head. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” Satisfied, I return to scrubbing. Jesse stares at me like he’s reevaluating everything he thought he knew about me. “So . . . you’re not rich,” he mutters, like he’s still processing.

“Not even a little.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Well. I’m really, really not rich.”

I glance at him. There’s something in his voice that makes me pause. The way he says it, matter-of-fact, but there’s something more beneath it. A history I don’t know.

I want to ask what he means, but I don’t. Something tells me he’s not into sharing more.

Instead, I turn back to the dishes. “Good. Now that we’ve established that neither of us is rich, we can move on.”

A beat of silence passes before Jesse speaks again. “I’ll take the kitten.”

I close my eyes. Again with the kitten.

I side-eye him. “I told you—I’m still thinking about it.”

He leans a hip against the counter, watching me. “You’re falling in love with the kitten, aren’t you?”

I whip my head toward him, ready to argue—when my throat tightens unexpectedly. Oh. Damn.

I am falling in love with the kitten.

She’s tiny, and scrappy, and curls up against my chest like she belongs there. She stares at me like she trusts me. And what am I supposed to do? Break her little heart and send her off with someone else?

Jesse notices my hesitation. He steps closer, until he’s right beside me. Then, gently, he places a warm, calloused hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll take good care of her,” he says quietly. His voice is steady. Sure. No teasing, no arrogant grin—just a simple, honest promise.

I swallow hard. Oh, damn, again.

I’m starting to think he might actually be a competent kitten owner . . . among other things.

But there is more to consider here. If he ends up with my kitten, that would, what? Make us kitten co-parents? The kitten will probably end up with a tiny ball cap on.

I clear my throat and look away, scrubbing a little too hard at a particularly stubborn spot on the pot. “Fine,” I say, my voice a little rougher than I’d like. “I’ll bring her to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Jesse smiles. “Looking forward to it.”

I scowl at him, mostly to keep my own feelings in check. “Don’t get too smug.”

He chuckles, lifting his hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I glare. He winks.

And just like that, I know I’m in trouble. Because now he’s being nice . . . too nice.

I throw him a dish towel. “You want me to forgive you, Ball Cap? Start drying.”