Page 66 of Snowed Inn

I’m still a little miffed that he never kissed me last night. But I’m also not ready to implement Luca’s go-for-broke kiss plan either. Maybe I need Sera’s magic hot chocolate. Does she have anything that induces kissing?

“Something like that,” Jesse replies, adjusting his ever-present ball cap. “Just a little farther.”

This whole excursion was unexpected. Last night, after I confessed my therapy notes to him and he finally talked about his family, something shifted between us. This morning, he appeared at my door with a peppermint mocha coffee and a simple question: “Do you want to take a ride?”

I should have said no. I have work to do—calls to make about the New Year’s Eve party, emails to answer for Monica . . . a plane ticket to LA to purchase. Instead, I nodded and grabbed my coat. What is wrong with me lately?

The truck slows as we approach a rusted sign reading “PINEWOOD HEIGHTS.” The name is misleading—there are no pines, no woods, and certainly no heights in sight. Just a collection of mobile homes arranged in haphazard rows amid huge piles of snow.

“This is where I grew up,” Jesse says quietly, turning into what passes for an entrance.

My breath catches. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

The trailer park is neither as rundown as I feared nor as nice as I hoped. Some homes show pride of ownership—shoveled sidewalks, holiday decorations, fresh paint. Others sag at the corners, surrounded by miscellaneous junk and broken toys. A common area in the center holds rusty, snow-covered playground equipment and what appears to be a community bulletin board.

Jesse drives slowly, like he’s allowing me to take it all in. “My mom still lives here. Different trailer though.” He nods toward a white single-wide with light-blue shutters and cheerful lacy curtains. “That’s her place now.”

“Are we . . . going to see her?” I ask, panicked at the thought of meeting his mother without warning. I’m neither dressed nor mentally prepared for meeting parents.

“No, she’s at work. Cashier at the supermarket in town,” Jesse says, continuing past the trailer. “I just wanted to show you.”

He parks near a small, fenced area at the back that appears to be a common space. “Come on,” he says, getting out of the truck.

I follow, my designer boots immediately sinking into the snow. I cringe but say nothing, catching up to Jesse as he approaches the fenced area.

Inside is what he tells me is a community garden, though at the moment it looks more like a snowbound sculpture garden. Rounded mounds mark where raised beds sit beneath a thick white blanket, their wooden edges just visible. Buckets that apparently hold small fruit trees are half-buried, their rims peeking out like hats pulled low, and the rainwater collection barrels wear lopsided caps of ice. Everything is dormant now, but I bet it’s gorgeous in the summer. A hand-painted sign juts up from a drift, dusted with snow but still readable: “PINEWOOD COMMUNITY GARDEN,” with smaller lettering beneath—“Founded by Jesse Butler, 2011.”

“You started this?” I ask, genuinely impressed.

Jesse nods, his hands in his pockets. “My Eagle Scout project. I was seventeen.” He runs a hand along the fence. “Mom always wanted a garden, but we didn’t have the space. I figured other families probably felt the same.”

He opens the gate and steps inside, navigating the snow-covered paths with practiced ease. “Most of these beds weren’t part of the original project. The community kept adding to it after I left for the army.” His voice carries a hint of pride.

I look around at the buried beds and half-lost signs of effort under all that snow. I can’t exactly admire the produce, but I can admire the heart behind it. “It must be pretty incredible when it’s not . . . hibernating,” I say, then add more seriously, “What you started here, I mean.”

“Hey, Jesse Butler!” A booming voice calls from across the garden. A heavyset older man with a full gray beard approaches; he’s carrying a shovel and wiping one snow-covered glove on his overalls. “Thought that was you.”

“Mr. Hoffman,” Jesse greets him with a genuine smile. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain.” Mr. Hoffman plants the shovel in front of him and his eyes shift to me with undisguised curiosity. “And who might this be?”

“This is Maria,” Jesse says. “She’s a friend from the inn.”

It’s not lost on me that he’s calling me his friend now, not just Ellie’s.

“From the inn, huh?” Mr. Hoffman looks me up and down, but there’s no judgment in his assessment, just unabashed interest. “You picked a good one to show you around, miss. This boy built half this community with his bare hands before he was old enough to vote.”

Jesse’s neck flushes red above his collar. “Mr. Hoffman exaggerates.”

“The hell I do,” the older man scoffs. “Who fixed Mrs. Davenport’s roof after that storm? Who built the ramp for old Bill when he lost his leg?” He turns to me. “And this garden? It’s fed half the families here at one point or another.”

I glance at Jesse, seeing him in a new light. “I didn’t know.”

“Course you didn’t,” Mr. Hoffman says. “He doesn’t tell nobody nothing about the good he does.” He winks at me. “You hang on to this one.”

“We’re not—” Jesse begins. But I interrupt.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Hoffman.”