Page 37 of Snowed Inn

I push aside the memory of last night—specifically, the way my belly fluttered when Jesse’s shoulder brushed mine under the sink. Or the silly pleasure I got when he complimented me.

Because Jesse Butler? Still not my type. Still a small-town local. Still someone I should absolutely not be thinking about regardless of his hotness quotient.

I thought about it a lot last night and decided this must be a test from the universe. I mean, the reason I am in any way attracted to Jesse is the same reason I’m always attracted to unsuitable men. They seem like a challenge and I like challenges. Only the problem is that when the man remains unsuitable—because people don’t change just because you want them to—I am left dating a guy who treats commitment like a four-letter word and regretting everything. The universe’s twist this time? This latest mistake wears flannel . . . and knows how to fix plumbing. But the underlying issue remains the same. Which is why I’m glad I didn’t kiss Jesse under the mistletoe . . . or the sink.

“So, what’s Jesse’s story?” Okay, that just blurted right on out of my mouth. Way to play it cool, Maria.

Charlotte narrows her eyes and smiles in a way that makes me wish I’d kept my trap shut.

“He never tells much,” she says. “But I do know he had a girlfriend in high school.” Charlotte lowers her voice like it’s a secret. “She dumped him right before he shipped out to the army—said she wanted someone with ‘bigger prospects.’” Charlotte shrugs. “He doesn’t talk about it a lot, but . . . I get the impression it really messed him up.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Now I really wish I had kept my trap shut because I did not want to know that. But it does kind of explain why he said that thing about being the guy girls leave. Ugh. The last thing I want to feel for Butler is empathy.

That’s it. I’m banishing all thoughts of him from my mind. I need to concentrate on helping out around here. Ellie would do this for me if the shoe were on the other foot. I know she would. I intend to give it my all.

I’ve already made a handful of calls to vendors to ensure the New Year’s Eve party plans are still in the works. This snow could let up any minute and I refuse to let the event crumble. Not on my watch. The linens vendor says they’ll be here come hell, high water, or blizzard. It can’t hurt that Miller is the area manager. The chef has already agreed to sleep here until the thirty-first if she needs to. The decorators—who will be transforming the food barn into a winter wonderland—are also committed. Apparently, they have a big truck with great snow tires. Charlotte and her friends are ready to watch the kids and Miller has agreed to go pick up Charlotte’s friends on his snowmobile if he has to, like some sort of modern-day Manny Wilder.

I’m still inhaling my coffee when Charlotte pulls out her notepad and scans the list of duties, her face scrunching up like she’s about to deliver bad news.

“Okay,” she announces. “Today, I’ll be covering the front desk. Donny’s doing room service calls. Sera and Jesse are handling the food barn, which leaves . . .” She hesitates, looking at me with an expression that’s equal parts regret and pleading.

“Charlotte.” My shoulders tense. I side-eye her. “Just say it.”

She shifts from foot to foot. There’s a wince. “Maria . . . do you think you could possibly . . . clean the rooms?”

I blink. Not quite the request I was expecting.

“You mean . . . like maid cleaning?” I ask, as if there’s a version of cleaning that doesn’t involve scrubbing toilets.

Charlotte bites her lip. “We’ve got a couple of checkouts today, and the rest of the rooms need service. Mila’s here, so you won’t be alone. But . . .” She glances around at our already stretched-thin staff. “We need you.”

I exhale, running a hand through my hair. I spent yesterday delivering room service, restocking supplies, going over my list for the New Year’s Eve event, entertaining people (or trying to), and feeling like a semi-useful human being. But hotel-level cleaning? That’s a lot to ask.

Then again, El would do this for me in a heartbeat. In fact, she kinda did once. That time I had way too many martinis (four) after Trevor broke up with me and I puked all over my bathroom. After she held my hair and put me to bed, she cleaned it all up. That’s some serious friendship.

I also can’t help but wonder if Jesse will be impressed if he finds out I’m cleaning actual rooms. I shouldn’t care but there will be no more “principessa” after that news drops.

I square my shoulders. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Charlotte gasps, clapping her hands and shouting like I just volunteered to donate a kidney. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” I glance down at my outfit. “Let me just change.”

Ten minutes later, I’m back in jeans, sneakers, and a black sweatshirt with Honeycrisp Orchard Inn written across the front. I grabbed it from the lobby gift store before I went upstairs. I look less like a fabulous PR rep and more like a lost college kid who wandered into a resort job.

Mila—a petite but fiercely efficient woman who’s worked at the inn for four years—meets me on the second floor. She gives me a once-over. “Ready?”

“Sure,” I lie.

We push a cleaning cart to the first room, where she gives me a crash course in Housekeeping 101. The first rule? Start with the bathroom.

Fun!

The second? Time. Is. Everything.

No pressure.

“This isn’t deep cleaning,” Mila explains as she zips through the bathroom with almost superhuman speed. “It’s about getting the job done fast and done right.”