Page 53 of Snowed Inn

“Wait,” I say as something important occurs to me. “Have you ever cheated on anyone?”

“What?” He’s frowning and his brows are pinched together. “No.”

“Never?” I prompt. I’ve learned over the years that a no isn’t always a hard no when it comes to this subject. Just ask a couple of my exes. “No drunken kiss at a bar? No charged texts with another woman?”

“Never,” he assures me.

“Okay, then, I stand by what I said. You’re good. At least from what I can see.”

He bites his lip in that way that makes my thighs clench, which is something that is happening with more and more frequency the longer I stay here.

“I’m not the guy girls like you end up with though,” he says softly. “I’m the practice guy. The rebound guy. The one who teaches you how to let your guard down and then watches you leave.”

Wow. There’s an ache in my chest, unexpected and real. Does he truly believe that? I hope not. I know he’s not denigrating me, he’s talking about himself. He doesn’t think he’s good enough. “I don’t think that’s true,” I say in a near whisper. But now I have a question that I want the answer to way more than where he lives. Why does Jesse feel this way? What happened to him? Was it his girlfriend dumping him before he went into the army?

Jesse blows out a breath. “Yeah, sure. That’s why you pulled away when I was about to kiss you yesterday.”

I suck in my breath. I can’t help it, and oh, damn. He’s forthright, which is something I normally appreciate in a man, but today, he’s caught me off guard. “Yes, but that wasn’t because—”

Double damn. I was about to say something I shouldn’t.

He cocks a brow. “Because what?”

“Wasn’t because . . . I didn’t want to,” I whisper, being more truthful than I’ve ever been with him.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, he lifts his hand and gently cups my chin with his thumb and fingers, just enough to tilt my face toward his.

“You’re definitely too good for me, Maria,” he murmurs, slowly rubbing his thumb across my chin.

A full-body shiver rockets through me so fast I nearly forget where we are. The heat of his touch, the soft rasp of his voice—it’s too much and not enough all at once.

But just as quickly, his hand falls away, and he clears his throat.

“I think I’ve got everything I need,” he says, pulling a box off the shelf, his voice light again.

I try to ignore the tiny, traitorous pang of disappointment inside of me.

“Oh. Great,” I manage, suddenly quite interested in a display of padlocks behind us. “What is it?” I ask, turning and pointing to the box he’s holding.

“A hose clamp.”

I have no idea what a hose clamp is for and I’m not about to ask when Jesse glances at me and says, “Are you hungry?”

It’s like he read my mind. I blink. “Starving.”

He smiles. “Good. Let’s get out of here before Mrs. Wilkins launches into her rant about how screws were made better in the seventies.”

As if summoned by name, Mrs. Wilkins calls out, “Y’all done back there?”

We make our way to the front counter, where she’s now holding up what is definitely a crocheted squid wearing a Santa hat.

“Thoughts?” she asks proudly.

Jesse nods solemnly. “It’s . . . festive.”

“Nice squid,” I say, squinting.

“It’s a tree topper!” she says cheerfully. “For people who are tired of angels and stars. You just plop this lil’ guy on the top and let the tentacles dangle. I’m already prepping for next Christmas.”