Page 36 of Snowed Inn

I laugh. “Sure, might as well become a full-fledged plumber while I’m at it.”

He guides me through checking the rest of the connections, pointing out what to look for and explaining each component’s purpose. First, it turns out he’s quite knowledgeable about plumbing. Second, his patience surprises me. He doesn’t rush or dismiss my questions, treating each one as valid.

When we finally emerge from under the sink, I’m sweaty and disheveled, but triumphant. Jesse hands me a clean dish towel, and I wipe my hands.

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “For not just doing it for me.”

He shrugs. “You would’ve figured it out eventually.”

“Maybe. But it would have involved a lot more swearing and possibly a much bigger flood.”

Jesse smiles, and it transforms his face, softening the lines around his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you can do anything you set your mind to, Maria.”

The compliment catches me off guard. I shrug. “I can run a PR campaign in my sleep, but ask me to fix a leaky pipe, I may need a little help.”

“Not anymore,” he points out. “Now you can do both.”

He’s right. And somehow, fixing this small thing with my own hands feels more satisfying than I expected.

“Where did you learn all that stuff, anyway?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He shrugs. “My mom couldn’t afford to call someone every time something broke,” he says simply. “So I figured it out.”

His mom? This is the first time he’s mentioned any family. Interesting.

And as for what he said, it’s not lost on me that it’s about money again. I think about my Manhattan apartment, where a single call brings someone to fix any problem. I’ve never had to think about how things work. My dad and Luca always fixed stuff like this around our house. I never had to develop the handyperson self-reliance Jesse clearly possesses. Was his dad out of the picture?

I’m thinking all these things, but I simply say, “Well, you’re a good teacher.”

“And you’re a quick study.” He pockets his wrench and heads toward the door. “Next time, you won’t need my help.”

Something about the way he says it makes me pause. “Maybe not. But . . . thanks for being willing to give it.”

Jesse hesitates at the doorway, looking back at me. For a moment, I think he might say something more. Instead, he just nods.

“Anytime, Maria.”

After he’s gone, I find myself replaying the interaction. He didn’t mock my incompetence or take over to show off. He believed I could do it before I believed it myself. He complimented me.

The men I’ve dated in the city would’ve vanished the second things got inconvenient. Jesse fixes leaks and helps out sick friends without a second thought. He’s . . . different. Different isn’t necessarily better, though. Different is dangerous.

I clean up the rest of the water on the floor with another towel from the bathroom, test the pipe one more time (still holding!), and realize I’m smiling.

Who would have thought I’d end the day knowing how to fix a leaky sink—thanks to Jesse Butler?

The universe really does have a sense of humor.

Chapter 13

December 27

Bright and early the next morning, I’m standing behind the front desk with Charlotte, sucking down the strongest coffee I could find and trying to ignore how every muscle in my body protests movement. It turns out hauling linens, fixing pipes, and teaching people how to properly play charades is a full-body workout. Who knew?

As expected, El and Aiden are still down for the count with the flu. Which means today, the Honeycrisp Orchard Inn is still running on a skeleton crew of people who live close: the chef, a couple of farmhands, one maid, Donny, Sera, Charlotte, Miller, Jesse, and me. That’s all we’ve got.

Because the snow is still coming down. Flights are still grounded. Roads are still impassable. And yet, somehow, the guests remain. The inn is still fully booked, people still expect meals, the bakery still needs fresh treats, and the New Year’s Eve event is just four days away. A couple of snowed-in families have made forts out of lobby couch cushions, and yesterday someone tried to organize a conga line through the dining room. Cabin fever is setting in, and it’s getting creative. The inn can’t afford to fall apart now, not when so many people rely on it.

I exhale slowly. We’ve got to make this work.