Page 28 of Snowed Inn

“I—” But just as quickly as he’d started the sentence he cuts it off, stands, and begins clearing the table. He’s not going to say anything else. I can tell.

Wow. Turns out Jesse Butler is kind of a tough nut to crack. And I can’t help but wonder if he liked the army because it was like the family he (apparently) doesn’t have. Still, I feel in my gut that he won’t tell anyone my OnlyFans secret. And if I’m wrong, it’s too late now.

I keep my mouth strategically shut as I help him clear the rest of the plates, and then I insist he sits. Despite my designer dress, I pull on the snowflake apron again and the dishes are washed in no time. “Thank you for cooking,” I say as I put away the final plate

“Thank you for washing the dishes,” he replies as we slowly make our way into the living room. “Want another drink?”

“No, thanks,” I tell him.

I’ve already decided that I need to keep my wits about me. Jesse being good-looking and thoughtful is a dangerous combination. Add more alcohol into the mix with a dash of holiday nostalgia and I could end up in bed with him in a matter of minutes if I don’t look lively. Or stay hydrated. Hydration is key when attempting to avoid making out with dangerously tempting men in cozy Christmas-lit spaces.

“I could use some water,” I mumble.

“I’ll get you some,” he tells me.

“I can get it,” I insist. Because apparently, I like to flirt with disaster. Literally.

We nearly race for the kitchen, both of us refusing to yield, and at the doorframe, I bump into Jesse’s chest.

His broad, muscled chest.

We both freeze.

My gaze travels up—past the strong line of his jaw, past those very kissable lips—straight up to the ceiling.

Oh, shit . . . Mistletoe.

Of course.

I swallow. Hard. My pulse has developed its own percussion section. There is only one way to handle this . . . with nonchalance. “Hmm. Looks like we’ve stumbled into a good, old-fashioned Christmas tradition.”

His blue eyes darken, heat flickering in their depths. “Wouldn’t want to break with tradition, would we?”

I tilt my chin, determined to match his energy and not melt on the spot. “Depends. What happens to blatant tradition breakers?” I ask, and I swear my voice has dropped a full octave.

He leans in, just a little. Just enough. My breath hitches, everything inside me pinging to attention. “I don’t know, but something tells me we don’t want to find out.”

Oh, I want to find out all right. Find out how his lips feel on mine. “We’d better not risk it, then,” I whisper.

His mouth curves—wicked, slow, promising—and I’m 99 percent sure he’s about to lean down and kiss me when—

“Merry Christmas!” The apartment door behind the front desk bursts open, and Charlotte practically skips inside.

Jesse and I spring apart like guilty teenagers on a couch.

Charlotte’s eyes narrow and her gaze jumps between the two of us. “Uh-huh.”

“What?” I say, my voice too high now.

Sera, who has apparently returned from her mom’s house, steps in behind Charlotte, carrying a tray of hot chocolate. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing!” Jesse and I blurt at the same time.

Sera sets the tray on the dining-room table and offers us each a ceramic mug with a snowman face on it. Adorable. And so Christmassy. I sigh. I’m wrapped in a warm cocoon of happiness.

Charlotte arches a brow. “You two look awfully cozy after all your bickering.”

I clear my throat. “It’s Christmas. We’ve declared a truce.”