Page 21 of Snowed Inn

For a moment, I genuinely think I misheard him.

“Dinner? With you?” My voice goes squeaky at the end like I’m thirteen again and the cute boy in class just asked me to the spring formal. Which is ridiculous. Because the cute boy didn’t ask me to the spring formal, plus, I’m a grown woman, fully capable of handling a casual dinner invitation.

Except this isn’t casual. Not really.

Jesse leans back a fraction, wearing that too-confident half-smile like it’s custom-made. “Yeah. You know, where people eat food together and talk. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

My mouth opens and closes in a tragic goldfish impression. “What about the bar?” I finally manage.

“I’m closing at six tonight. After cocktail hour.”

“I don’t know,” I say, desperately trying to think of some reason—any reason—to decline.

Jesse leans a hip against the counter, arms crossing like he’s got all the time in the world. “Come on. Ellie and Aiden are sick. Donny’s working. Sera’s with her mom. And I’m pretty sure Charlotte and Miller want to be alone. You’ve got no plans, unless you’re going to eat the rest of these Christmas cookies in your room. By yourself.”

Rude. And yet . . . accurate. Though more like these Christmas brownies.

“I could have plans,” I argue weakly. “Very important plans.”

Jesse gives me a look. The kind that says he knows every one of my so-called plans involves scrolling Instagram and pretending I’m not lonely.

“Maria.”

Just my name. Soft. Certain.

It gets to me.

Once upon a time, an invitation from Jesse would have sent me into a spiral not just of nerves, but of dread, or possibly rage. He made it crystal clear he thought I was a pampered city girl who couldn’t hack it in his small-town world. And I spent more time than I care to admit resenting him for it.

But today? Today, I don’t dread it.

Because he stayed with me in the bakery. He helped me figure out the POS (which is actually nicknamed “piece of shit” by those who regularly use it, by the way). He made me laugh. He didn’t treat me like an outsider.

And, fine, maybe I’m kind of curious what dinner with Jesse Butler is actually like.

“I guess,” I say slowly, “if you’re desperate for company . . .”

Jesse grins, cocky and insufferable. “Oh, absolutely. I’m pathetic. Please, take pity on me.”

“This isn’t a date,” I warn, pointing a finger at him.

“Uh, you wish,” he fires back, straight-faced, and I gasp—scandalized but also, annoyingly, delighted.

“I do not wish,” I mutter.

“Sure you don’t.”

I scowl. He’s enjoying this far too much.

“Wear something cozy,” he adds, backing toward the bar. “It’s Christmas. Sweatpants are practically a requirement.”

“Over my dead body,” I fire back. “It’s a major holiday. I will not be seen in sweatpants. Even fancy ones.”

Jesse laughs, low and rich. “Suit yourself, city girl. But you’ll be overdressed.”

“I can live with that.”

He gives me a mock salute. “Seven o’clock, then. The Lawsons’ place.”