Page 54 of Snowed Inn

“Smart,” I assure her.

“I call him Santa Squid,” she says, tying a tiny candy cane around one tentacle. “Patent pending.”

Jesse digs out his wallet and holds up the box of screws and the hose clamp. “How much for these?”

She waves him off. “Put it on your tab. Or better yet, pay me in cider at the New Year’s Eve bash.”

As we walk out, bell jingling behind us, I turn to Jesse. “You’re getting outbartered by a woman who crocheted a Christmas squid.”

“Correction,” he says. “I chose to be outbartered. Mrs. Wilkins is a nice lady.”

Snow crunches beneath our boots as we head back down the street, our arms brushing now and then as we walk.

And despite the freezing wind, I feel warm.

Turns out, I’ve found something really good in this snow globe of a town.

And I’m not quite ready for this outing to end.

Chapter 19

Layla’s Diner is just down the street from the hardware shop and another bell jingles when Jesse pulls the door open and holds it for me. Do all the doors in this town jingle? Did they discuss it at a town council meeting? Is it a statute? Or does one of them sell door jinglers? My money’s on Mrs. Wilkins.

Inside, the warm scent of grilled food and nostalgia hits me immediately. The place is a 1950s time capsule—checkerboard floors, chrome stools, even a jukebox in the corner.

We’re greeted by just about every person sitting at the counter. It’s a flurry of names, and of course Jesse knows all of them. Mr. Wilkins is there, and I ask him what he thinks of the Santa Squid.

“Honestly, I thought she was making it as a Christmas present for our granddaughter, who just read Remarkably Bright Creatures. She can’t get enough of that octopus narrator.”

“Marcellus?” I snort.

“That’s the fella.”

I am still trying to decide if I’d rather have a Santa Squid or a Marcellus when a middle-aged woman wearing black, cat-eye glasses on a sparkly gold chain and a little white apron over a pink 1950s-style skirt with a petticoat comes hurrying out of the back to show us to a seat.

As soon as we sit, the waitress—who, of course, knows Jesse—grins at me. “Well, well. You must be Maria.”

Oh boy. “That obvious? Are we already on the Hot Sheet?”

She laughs. “I’m Layla. Ellie talks about you.”

I grin. “Good things, I hope.”

“She said you’d be the one most likely to spontaneously combust if left in the country too long.”

Jesse laughs. “That sounds right.”

I roll my eyes. “I am adapting, thank you very much.”

“Sure you are, city girl.” Jesse shakes his head.

I spend a few minutes perusing the laminated menu and smiling when I see tater tots listed. El loves tots. No wonder this is her favorite restaurant.

Layla drifts over to take our order and Jesse doesn’t even look at the menu. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” he says. His voice is steady, low, and way too serious for dairy and carbs.

Layla jots it down without blinking, like she’s heard this order a thousand times before.

I raise a brow. “Really? That’s what you’re getting?”