Page 9 of Snowed Inn

Hmm. Now I am compelled to point out his own logic. “What? No flannel-wrapped, apple-butter-churning country girls catch your fancy?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “The only fancy I catch around here is from boutique-loving city girls visiting for the weekend. You know, the type who wear heels in the snow and order martinis instead of cider.”

I give him a slow blink followed by a narrow-eyed stare. I see you, sir.

“Yeah,” he continues, “the kind who shamelessly flirt and then head right back to the city.”

I let that hang for a second. Then I arch a brow. “Wow. Must be exhausting, fending off all that imaginary attention.”

He scratches the back of his neck again. “Okay, that might have come out wrong. I didn’t mean you—I meant, like, the general archetype. Statistically.” He bites his lip. “You know what? I’ll stop talking now.”

Ooh, what’s this? Have I won a battle of words with Ball Cap? Score one for Agostini. Only it’s not a pure victory because I can’t help but notice that his cheeks have turned ever so slightly pink and it’s not unattractive.

I fiddle with my cocktail napkin to avoid looking directly at him. Then my phone buzzes. I already know it’s Monica but it’s the first time all day I’m thankful for the distraction. I pull the device out of my bag and stare at it.

MONICA: do u think I should change my Instagram handle? something like @MonicaUnfiltered?

I audibly groan. “Stop texting me,” I say to the phone as if she can hear me.

“Who?”

“My client. Monica. She thinks ‘urgent’ means any passing thought that pops into her head.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “And you’re answering her . . . why?”

I lift one shoulder. “Because she’s high profile, and it’s sort of my job.”

He nods slowly. “So . . . you’re a well-paid babysitter?”

“Pretty much.” I sigh. “I used to be a publicist. But it doesn’t feel the same anymore. Not like it used to. Somewhere along the way, it turned from a dream into a hamster wheel I can’t seem to get off.”

He pokes out his cheek with his tongue. “Why don’t you just turn off your phone?”

I blink. “What?”

“Turn. It. Off. Power it down. Put it in the freezer. Give it to a raccoon. I don’t know—just stop letting it rule your life.”

I stare at him as if he’s just suggested I give up oxygen. “You say that like it’s a casual option.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” I reply. “I work in public relations. My phone is essentially a third limb. Turning it off would be the end of my career. Half of my job is making sure my clients don’t say anything offensive or stupid online. Even during Christmas.”

“But just imagine,” he says, leaning in slightly, “the peace. The quiet. The sweet, sweet silence of no texts.”

I open my mouth to argue—and then close it.

And for the first time in, like, forever . . . I actually consider it.

The thought is both terrifying and . . . kind of fun. Like skydiving or lion taming or . . . marriage. You know, for some people.

I’m still internally spiraling over his scandalous suggestion when Sera appears beside me, hands dusted with flour. “Maria,” she says, beaming, “I heard you found a kitten.”

I sit up straighter. This is my chance to sell Sera on becoming a kitten mama. “Yeah. A little black one. She’s really sweet.”

“Are you keeping her?” she asks next.

I sigh. “I can’t. My apartment in the city isn’t kitten-friendly.”