Page 23 of Snowed Inn

She curls tighter, rumbling contentedly, while I mutter, “This is a bad idea, isn’t it?”

She offers me nothing but sleepy, purring silence.

Oh, how I wish kittens could talk. I haven’t even told her yet that she’s going home with him. And why is that thought making me the tiniest bit jealous of a cat at the moment?

Chapter 8

Christmas Night

If you had told me two weeks ago that I’d be spending Christmas night alone with Jesse Butler at the Honeycrisp Orchard Inn, I would have asked if you were feeling okay.

And yet.

I mean, on paper, my agreeing to join him for dinner is a normal human decision. He’s cooking, I have no other plans, it’s a major holiday, blah blah blah. But in reality? This is how it starts. This is how I always get myself into trouble. One minute I’m just having dinner, and the next, I’m staring at some jerk’s stupid dimple and wondering what his mouth would feel like on mine.

I refuse to do that again. I learned my lesson with my last three relationships. They all end up the same. Fun for a few weeks, possibly even a whole month and then . . . I’ve got to get out before he leaves me. It’s a whole pattern and I’ve been to therapy about it.

Turns out? I’m attracted to exactly the wrong type of man. The kind of man who cannot commit. The kind of man who’s only good for a fling. And while Jesse doesn’t wear suits and expensive watches like the guys I normally date, he must have a commitment-phobe’s disposition or I wouldn’t be attracted to him. It’s true. That’s how it works. I read it in a self-help book years ago. Not that it did me much good. I dated several guys who were allergic to commitment after reading it. But still, the information is solid. Which is why I intend to squash any little bit of attraction I feel for Jesse. It’s not happening. Ever.

I wiggle into my slinky, asymmetrical cocktail dress. It’s a soft, iridescent pistachio green satin with one shoulder strap, a ruched bodice that hugs the waist, and a subtle thigh slit. The hem hits mid-calf, giving it that retro-glam-meets-modern-edge vibe.

I have paired it with square-toed metallic heels, a micro-purse that fits nothing but vibes, and layered necklaces. My makeup looks dewy and fresh, with a bold lip because I don’t shy away from a statement.

My hair? Slicked back in a high ponytail that says, “Yes, I always look like this (after two hours of styling).”

And no, none of this is for Jesse. I like to dress well and it’s an international holiday, after all. If Ball Cap is the only one who gets to see my look, there’s a blizzard to blame.

Speaking of the blizzard, the guests have all been trapped in the inn and while some of them made it to the food barn today, I know Charlotte and Donny have had their hands full helping the chef with dinner. I peeked into the dining room again before I came up here. Another dazzling display. Not quite Ellie level but still, nice. Charlotte knows her stuff. If it’s still snowing tomorrow, I’ll volunteer to help with whatever she needs. I know they’re short-staffed. The least I can do is pitch in.

I shake some kibble into the kitten’s bowl and am about to head downstairs when my phone buzzes.

MONICA: merry christmas, babe! 🎄✨ hope you’re having a fabulous holiday! quick thing—have u seen the latest draft of my Vogue interview? i feel like they didn’t capture my “essence.” can you finesse it? also, my astrologer says i’m entering a transformative phase, so I need my PR to reflect that. let’s brainstorm. no rush, but like . . . soon? 😘

I groan.

Christmas tilts her head at me.

“Monica is so self-absorbed,” I say. “She wants me to enjoy my holiday, but also wants me to drop everything and work on her ‘essence.’”

Christmas blinks.

“I know,” I sigh. “What does that even mean? Ugh. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” I acknowledge the text with the least I can do. The basic thumbs-up emoji.

MONICA: boring!

I thumbs-up that too, just to be passive aggressive. It warms my heart.

Next, I tap Luca’s contact.

He answers on the second ring. “What’s up, sis?”

“Just checking in before dinner. How’s everything there?”

“Noisy. Nonna’s yelling at the news, Mom’s stress-polishing the silverware, and Mary just used Sofia’s curling iron as a sword. So . . . festive.”

I laugh, unexpectedly emotional. “I miss that chaos.”

“You’ll survive. And hey, maybe there’s magic in flannel-land. You could find a small-town Santa to sweep you off your high-heeled feet.”