Page 76 of Snowed Inn

I clutch my pillow to my chest and let out a silent scream.

What have I done?

I fling off the blankets, pace the apartment, and quickly start typing into my notes app. Drafting a list of all the reasons this cannot—must not—go any further.

Reasons Jesse Butler is still a Bad Idea despite him giving me the Hottest Kiss of my life:

He lives two hours away from me.

He owns exactly one flannel shirt and wears it like a second skin.

He knows how to fix things with his hands. (This is a bad thing because . . . reasons.)

He has actual values and possibly a soul.

I am emotionally allergic to good guys.

This is not a crush. This is proximity. Isolation. A by-product of snow, enforced coziness, and his stupid peppermint martinis. Or in this case, cider.

And that kiss?

That was . . . a singular, hormonal blip. A fluke. Like Mercury retrograde or my decision to buy pink suede boots that one time.

I flop onto the couch and cover my face with a Christmas tree throw pillow.

I am not equipped for this.

I know how to be snarky. I even know how to banter. And I definitely know how to run away from feelings like a model avoiding carbs before a runway show. But Jesse kissed me like he meant it.

I grab my phone and open Instagram, because nothing kills romantic illusions like nine hundred curated vacation posts and a targeted ad for dental floss.

Monica’s latest story pops up.

“Thinking about the time I was almost cast as an elf in The North Pole Diaries. Missed opportunities, y’know? Anyway, do we love this filter?”

I close the app and mutter, “El’s right. I need more therapy.”

Instead, I open my notes app again and type out a new strategy.

Operation Emotional Distance

No more alone time with Jesse.

No more discussing deep topics. Or poetry.

Absolutely no more kissing.

Distract self with tasks. (Inn stuff. Event prep. Small talk with strangers. Brownies.)

Avoid all flannel-based temptation.

“It’s fine,” I say to myself. “I’m taking control. I’m being smart.”

And then, like a true coward, I text Ellie—even though she’s still flu-ish.

ME: so I may have made a tiny mistake

EL: [sends a vomiting emoji with a question mark]