Page 47 of Snowed Inn

“You’re not a doctor,” I say, trying to sound unaffected.

“Nope. But I’ve seen enough sprained joints and football injuries to know when something’s off.”

The thing that’s off is my brain chemistry, apparently. Because his fingers are barely skimming my skin, and somehow that’s enough to short-circuit every coherent thought I’ve ever had. He’s checking for injuries. And I am not okay.

“You’re lucky,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to mine. “No swelling.”

Oh, yeah. Tell that to my heart.

He helps me up again just as Charlotte runs over, gasping. “Oh my God! Are you okay, Maria? I am so, so sorry! Miss Guin gets loose sometimes when the latch freezes and—”

“I’m fine,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. “Just goat-bruised both spiritually and emotionally. I won’t sue, I promise.”

Jesse chuckles, still brushing hay and snow from my hair. “You did great.”

I shoot him a look. “I got taken down by a goat, Jesse.”

“Yeah. But you got back up. That’s what matters.”

I can’t help but smile. The way he says it makes me feel like I won a trophy.

Charlotte continues to apologize profusely. She opens the pen and leads Miss Guinevere toward the barn, giving the animal a real lecture as they go.

Jesse and I linger near the hay pile, watching the goat’s fuzzy tail disappear.

“You know,” I say, crossing my puffy-coated arms over my chest, “my entire life usually revolves around red carpets, pre- and post-release buzz, and managing egos so fragile they could shatter if a stylist picked the wrong heel height.”

He tilts his head, deadpan. “And now you’re wrangling livestock in a blizzard.”

I look around—the glittering snow, the distant lights of the inn, the faint smell of burning wood in the air. I smile.

Next to the barn door, I catch sight of Charlotte talking to Sawyer. He’s crouched beside Miss Guinevere, murmuring something low and reassuring while he checks her leg. The goat leans into him like she’s in love, and honestly, I get it. With his dark hair falling into his eyes and that easy smile flashing as he talks, the guy radiates calm. Even the animals know he’s a good one.

Charlotte stands there like she’s forgotten how to breathe, twisting the end of her hot-pink scarf in her mitten-covered fingers. And when Sawyer tips his hat at her, dimples popping, she about melts into a snowdrift. Meanwhile, I can’t help but notice that Miller is nowhere to be seen.

I shake my head. If Charlotte doesn’t make a move soon, I might have to do it for her.

But then I remember what Jesse just said about wrangling livestock in a snowstorm. I swear, this whole place is a pure streaming holiday movie.

“Yeah,” I reply, “and I don’t’t hate it.”

Chapter 17

December 29

Yesterday’s goat drama—complete with possibly mild concussion, torn leggings, and probably the most dignity-deficient moment of my adult life—would’ve made anyone reevaluate their choices.

But what I can’t stop thinking about is what came next.

After I dodged a group of guests playing Cards Against Humanity in the lobby and made it upstairs, Jesse showed up at my apartment with hot peppermint tea and a wool blanket. I was already grateful to him for picking the hay out of my hair and making sure I didn’t have any major goat-induced injuries.

It was really nice of him to come over to make sure I was okay. But the most disconcerting part was the feeling of him seeing me—truly seeing me—and not flinching.

Something settled over me while I was covered in snow and hay. Something scary and weirdly hopeful.

Maybe it’s more than just not hating it here. Maybe . . . I actually like it here.

The truth is, it’s fun, quiet, and carefree. Jesse’s advice about letting go of my phone? Magical. I didn’t even miss it the entire time we were sledding. And I’m beginning to spend longer periods without it.