Page 24 of Snowed Inn

I roll my eyes, smiling. “If by Santa you mean a grumpy brewer who thinks I’m a princess, then sure.”

“Sounds hot. Send pics.”

“Bye, Luca.”

“Merry Christmas, Ri.”

By the time I make it down to El’s parents’ apartment with Christmas and all her stuff, including a litter box Donny somehow procured for me in the middle of a blizzard, Jesse is already in full chef mode.

“Wow,” he says when I step through the door. “You look . . . amazing.”

Honestly? I could get used to his compliments, but I remember my talk with Christmas. Who knows if he actually means it? This could well be a long con.

Though, he is pretty adorable again with the kitten. He scoops her out of my arms and kisses her nose and tells her he’s looking forward to being roomies with her. Christmas meows and bonks him on the cheek with her tiny paw. I swear she smiles at him. Oh, great. He’s charmed her. I force myself to ignore all that and ask if he needs help.

I do not ask why he didn’t invite me to dinner at his place. It’s a question I’m keeping in my back pocket for now. Along with a couple of other things I’ve been wondering about.

But when Jesse slides a peppermint martini across the counter and says, “You’ve had a hard day. Relax,” I don’t hate it. And it makes me forget my questions.

So now I’m sitting on a stool, sipping another killer martini, watching Jesse cook.

“What are we having?” I ask, inhaling deeply. It smells great.

“Turkey, stuffing, and green beans,” he says as he expertly avoids the kitten, who is jumping adorably at his feet.

“Sounds fantastic,” I reply, meaning it.

“Don’t get too excited. It’s just a turkey breast. I didn’t cook a whole bird or anything.”

“As long as you have cranberry sauce,” I say, rubbing my hands together.

Jesse lifts a brow and steps closer. “What kind of man do you take me for? Of course I have cranberry sauce.”

I let out a small squeal. “My favorite!”

His smile widens. “You’re a little tipsy already, aren’t you?”

Hmm. Perhaps I was a bit too emphatic about the cranberry sauce. I glance down at my half-empty martini. “Maybe.” Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten since I had half a brownie around noon. It was too busy at the bakery to do much more.

Speaking of which . . . It’s kind of my turn to be nice. ’Tis Christmas. No matter what Butler says tonight, I shall be patient and not too blunt.

A few comfortably quiet moments pass before I set down my glass and say, “Hey, I appreciate your help today.”

Jesse doesn’t turn around. He’s pulling the stuffing out of the oven, and I close my eyes to avoid staring at his stupid, perfect ass.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, placing the pan on top of the stove.

“But you did save me on those first few transactions,” I press.

He waves a snowman-covered oven mitt. “You would’ve figured it out.”

He’s not wrong, but I want him to take the damn compliment. I’m trying hard here. “I’m attempting to be nice, Jesse,” I blurt. “After how we started out, it was big of you to help me today.” Okay, so much for being patient and stopping myself from being too blunt. A total fail.

This time he does turn to me and his features soften. “I was the one in the wrong, Maria.”

Something about the way he says my name in that gruff, sorta deep voice of his makes me squeeze my thighs together.

“I’m just glad you’ve finally forgiven me,” he continues.