Page 7 of Snowed Inn

And I’m here. Drinking alone. In fabulous heels no one can even appreciate. Well, unless you count Ball Cap. And I am not counting him. (Sera wears black Crocs, God love her.)

Okay, I need to seriously buck up. I’ll go to the bathroom and splash a little water on my face. That should do it.

I set down the martini, take a deep breath, and hop off the stool.

Or at least, I try to.

But my heel catches on the rung, and before I know what’s happening, I pitch forward.

I let out a startled, completely undignified, “Oh shit—”

Strong hands grab my arms, steadying me before I can face-plant into a display of gingerbread people along the side of the bar.

“Easy there, Maria.”

I look up—and of course it’s Jesse. His fingers are warm on my bare forearm. My skin instantly tightens, aware of the contact. We lock eyes.

And . . . oh no.

There’s definitely a flicker of something.

Awareness.

Heat.

The kind of thing that can’t be explained away with weather or exhaustion or really good peppermint vodka.

Jesse clears his throat, but his hand stays on me a beat longer than necessary before he steps back. And I can’t help but notice that he smells like a combination of pine and soap that is somehow making my knees go weak.

“You always dismount like that?” he asks, voice casual. “Or was that your signature Christmas face-plant?”

I huff, brushing my hair back. “It was a slight misstep.”

He glances pointedly at my heels. “Well, those shoes are basically architectural hazards. I’m just saying . . . OSHA would have questions.”

I scowl, but my mouth is twitching. Damn him. He’s infuriating and too confident and a little bit funny, which is not helping.

“Well,” I sniff, lifting my chin. “Some of us are committed to looking fabulous, even while having a record-setting bad day.”

Jesse’s expression softens slightly. “Yeah, well . . . you do look great.”

Before I can even decide how I feel about that, he turns and heads back behind the bar like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just catch me, tease me, and possibly compliment me all in the span of ten seconds.

I take a deep breath and smooth my hands down my sweater.

I sit back on the barstool, tug out my phone, and fire off a text to Luca.

ME: just almost face-planted into a gingerbread display. saved by a guy in flannel. this is my life now.

LUCA: plz tell me this is code for something hotter than it sounds.

ME: it’s not.

LUCA: damn. U okay?

ME: i think so. i’m just . . . homesick, I guess.

LUCA: we miss you too. dad made Christmas punch. it’s a crime against nature. don’t forget to call us tonight.