Page 4 of Snowed Inn

I grin. “I’d take you up on that if I thought it would work. But I’m fine. Mostly. Except I think my boots are ruined and I may or may not have gotten into a fight with a bartender.”

“Classy, Agostini.” Luca sobers a bit. “Seriously though, we miss you. Mom’s yelling about how the scampi doesn’t taste the same without your ‘helpful’ commentary.”

I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat. “Tell her I said she’s overcooking the shrimp.”

“Done. Merry Christmas, sis. Call us later, yeah?”

“Yeah. I will.”

I hang up with a sigh and set the kitten back on the bed to resume unpacking. I can’t help but notice that she meows approvingly when I pull out my best pieces. Hmm. Perhaps she is a fashion kitten. Though I sense a wee bit of judgment every once in a while, in her side-eye-filled paw licking.

Once my clothes are all properly hanging in the closet, I grab my phone again. Scrolling through social only turns up more holiday happiness, which is making me seriously sad. When did my life turn into one long scroll, anyway? I need to go outside and touch grass. Or snow, as the case may be. I pat Christmas the kitten on the head and drop my phone into my bag.

It’s time to get out of here. Blizzard or not.

Minutes later, I am slowly making my way to the food barn, not to take Jesse up on his drink offer; I have an entirely different errand in mind. I’m seriously in need of one of Sera’s peppermint brownies. El’s been telling me about them all month. Now’s my chance to snag one . . . or three. Whatever.

Serafina is the inn and orchard’s “karmic” baker. I don’t know her all that well, but I adore her. At twenty-eight, she’s a year younger than me and she is what some people might call quirky. She’s got long black hair (which is sometimes purple), piercing green eyes, and cosmic tattoos. She reads tarot, wears a lot of gold chains, and bakes things that are allegedly infused with magic. I have no idea if that’s true, but I do know her baked goods are next-level delicious. And that’s good enough for me.

I’m standing in the entryway of the food barn, stamping snow off my high-heeled boots. Geez. Fashion in weather is a commitment. First, I need a brownie, because I have priorities. Second, I need to rehome a tiny black kitten. And if there’s anyone in this town destined to own a black cat, it’s Sera.

As I take my first step toward the bakery counter, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my purse and glance down at it. Cue the text that ruins my mood.

MONICA: what color should my dress be for the premiere?

I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and count to three.

It’s Christmas Eve. I am on vacation.

I type back: Something classic. Black, red, or navy.

MONICA: boring! what about yellow?

I groan. This woman wants constant hand-holding, but refuses to listen to actual advice.

ME: yellow can be tricky. it has to be the right shade.

MONICA: is gold yellow?

I am going to lose my mind.

I toss my phone back into my purse before I type something that will get me fired. Right now, I just need a brownie.

I look around. The barn is decorated like something out of a Christmas fantasy: full-size Christmas trees with dazzling silver and red bulbs, white twinkling lights, and garland wrapped around every wooden post. It smells like pine, peppermint, and chocolate, which is basically what I imagine the North Pole smells like. Huge balsam wreaths with dramatic red bows hang behind the bar and the bakery counter.

It’s early afternoon and it’s empty in here right now. I’m guessing it’s nap time for most of the inn’s guests. Or maybe they’re just avoiding the blizzard. I don’t blame them. It’s pretty nasty outside. According to Ellie, working in hospitality is a 365-day-a-year job. Not only is the inn open year-round, so are the bakery and the brewery, because they cater to the inn’s guests. Which, at the moment, is a good thing . . . for me at least.

“Maria!”

I wince.

I was hoping to slip in unnoticed. But no. Sera—bless her enthusiastic soul—just announced my arrival like I’m Santa Claus returning to the toy workshop.

And now Jesse Butler’s head snaps up from behind the bar. His blue eyes meet mine. He grins.

Damn.

Oh fantastic. He definitely thinks I came here to see him. He probably assumes I’m going to swoon over his free drink offer like it’s a rose on The Bachelor. Hard pass. The less time I spend in his orbit, the lower the odds I’ll end up charged with aggravated eye-rolling—or actual assault.