Page 39 of Snowed Inn

It’s unsettling. And my next thought is even more unsettling . . . maybe—just maybe—I’ve been wrong about him.

Charlotte nudges me with her elbow. “What?”

I shake my head, realizing I was staring after Jesse in a daze. “Nothing,” I insist.

But I don’t even believe myself.

Because I have this new, sinking feeling that in addition to being hot, Jesse Butler might actually be a good person.

Which is a problem.

A big, messy, complicated problem.

Chapter 14

It’s after seven when I finally collapse into the couch in the lobby, limbs boneless and brain officially melted. It’s unusually quiet—probably because Donny is upstairs leading a fiercely competitive hot-cocoa tasting and trivia night in the second-floor hallway. From what I overheard earlier, there are team names and everything. Charlotte trails in after me, flopping down beside me with a sigh.

“How was it?” she asks.

“Not too bad,” I mumble. At least turndown service is significantly less labor intensive than scrubbing bathrooms and making beds. It’s pretty much just lowering the lights, placing a flower and a couple of chocolates on the pillows, and folding back the covers a little . . . but I still feel like I’ve been hit by a subway train.

The front doors swing open, letting in a blast of cold air—and a tall guy in a worn red jacket stomps snow off his boots. His dark hair is mussed from the wind, his green eyes catch the light like polished glass, and when he grins, a pair of dimples appear that honestly ought to be illegal. There’s an easy calm about him, the kind that makes you believe skittish animals—or, say, overworked innkeepers—would relax just being near him.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, tugging off his gloves as he heads toward the desk.

Beside me, Charlotte practically bolts upright, cheeks going pink like she’s been caught reading a spicy romance novel in church instead of folding towels and handling front desk calls for twelve hours straight.

“Hey, Sawyer,” she chirps, suddenly way perkier than I’ve seen her all day.

I bite back a grin. Well, well, well. Somebody’s got it bad. And now it makes perfect sense, because Ellie told me once that she and Aiden and Sera are convinced that far from being madly in love with Miller, our little Charlotte has had a crush on Sawyer, one of the farmhands, for something like six years. They all assumed Sawyer just wasn’t interested, but things took a turn during the Autumn Harvest Festival when Charlotte showed up with Miller. Everyone here has been nosily watching the three of them like suburban moms tracking a neighborhood drama on the Nextdoor app, and El has been keeping me informed from afar.

Now that I’ve seen Charlotte’s reaction to Sawyer, I’m pretty sure her and Miller’s days are numbered. Plus, I’m more than a little intrigued. I mean . . . who doesn’t like a good love triangle? Where is my popcorn? And maybe a lawn chair. I plan to settle in.

At the moment, however, I’m too exhausted to fully care. The only good thing about working so hard today is that I had a great excuse for ignoring the steady string of Monica Moss’s text messages. Plus, some nonsense on her social media feeds. It was harmless this time. Thank heavens. But I honestly can’t remember not looking at my phone for as long as I managed today. More surprising? It wasn’t awful. I actually forgot all about it for long stretches. Amazing, but true. Maybe Jesse had a point. Maybe I should give my phone to a raccoon. I can’t help but snort-laugh at the thought of a raccoon getting Monica’s texts and sending back: 🦝 new phone who dis.

I don’t have long to imagine the raccoon’s other possible replies because the front door opens again, and this time, Jesse strolls in. He’s looking ridiculously good for someone who’s been working all day too. His flannel fits too well, his hair is too effortlessly tousled (sans ball cap), and his general existence is too unfair. He’s casually tossing an apple in the air and whistling. Meanwhile, I look like I lost a fight with a dust bunny. A big one. Like guy-in-an-Easter-bunny-suit size. But I don’t even care that my hair is a mess or that I’m one pillow chocolate away from a coma—I’m too tired to think about him right now.

“Long day?” he asks, biting into the apple with an irritating amount of verve.

“The longest.” I don’t even lift my head. My entire body is made of cement.

A bell chimes at the front desk, and Charlotte pushes herself up. “That’s for me,” she sighs. “The poor guests are going stir-crazy. If I have to answer any more questions about how to hook up a streaming service to the TVs, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.” She’s kidding, of course. I can’t imagine sweet little Charlotte losing her cool under any circumstances. But she quickly disappears, leaving me alone with Jesse.

Jesse leans against the arm of the couch, studying me with mild amusement as he takes another bite. “So, how are you enjoying life at the inn? Made any apple butter yet?”

I force out a weak smile. “Running this place is exhausting. I don’t know how El does it.”

He nods. “Yeah, it’s about as much work as running a brewery.”

“You just serve people beer,” I scoff.

His smirk deepens. “And you just put chocolates on pillows.”

“Touché.” Then, “Why aren’t you at the bar right now?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Lucky for me, Miller could fill in tonight,” he adds. “Turns out he used to bartend in college. And Sawyer is taking over the stuff Miller was doing in here.”

Ah, so that’s why Sawyer just strolled in looking like Charlotte’s farmhand fever dream. “Oh? Cool.” I nod. It’s not my best banter but I’m too tired to be witty. I finish with the very low-key, “Miller is a nice guy.”