Page 6 of Snowed Inn

“Keep an eye on me,” I whisper to Sera. “Call El if I put him in a headlock.”

She laughs. “Jesse’s a pretty good guy, actually.”

I narrow my eyes, contemplating this information. It’s the second time I’ve heard it. El has already tried to make me believe it. And yet, I haven’t seen for myself that Jesse is a “pretty good guy,” aside from that “feeding the hungry kitten” thing.

I have to admit El got to me earlier when she told me that Jesse has no family, hence his presence during the holidays. It makes me sad to think about not having any family. I mean, what must that be like? It also makes me miss my own family more. I don’t know what I’d do without Luca, or Nonna, Mom, Dad, or my sisters, Veronica and Jacqueline. They’re twins. I am the baby of the family and the only one who doesn’t live in LA, which means I’m the only one missing our family Christmas celebration right now. It’s making me homesick. At least I can FaceTime them all later.

Still clutching my brownie, I stride toward the bar. Jesse is already at work, pouring peppermint vodka and chocolate liqueur into a shaker with confident movements. Damn it. I hate when people I don’t like are competent. Also, not a fan when they’re too hot for their own good. Or when they dress like scruffy barkeeps.

I approach the bar warily. “Martini, eh? I thought you only served cider and beer,” I say, watching him with my still-narrowed eyes.

“Now that I’m part owner of the bar, I expanded the menu.”

I blink. “You’re an owner?”

“Yep. After Ellie bought into the inn, she and Aiden let me and Sera buy into the food barn. We’re all partners now.”

Huh. I did not know that.

Jesse finishes making the martini, carefully rimming the glass with crushed peppermint before adding the little chocolate-covered peppermint stick.

When he hands it to me, he is smug.

“Don’t be offended if I hate it,” I warn him. “I’m a little . . . particular about my drinks.” Drinks, clothes, my multi-year plan for world domination. You know? Minor details.

“You’ll like it,” he says, oozing confidence like it’s a party trick.

I roll my eyes but take a sip anyway. And . . . wow. It’s incredible.

“Pretty good,” I say casually, like my taste buds aren’t currently throwing confetti.

“Liar,” Jesse says, grinning wide.

I try not to smile. “Fine. It’s great. Whatever.”

His eyes widen on a quick blink. “Whoa. I didn’t think you’d actually admit it.”

I shrug. “It’s Christmas.”

And then, against my better judgment, I take another sip.

Chapter 3

The blizzard is still raging outside, but the food barn is warm and cozy. Which might partly explain why I haven’t left yet. The other part? Brownies and peppermint martinis.

I’m at the bar with my chin propped on my fist scrolling on my phone like it’s my full-time job, because honestly? It is, lately. In fact, what used to be a highly satisfying career in public relations at one of Manhattan’s top firms has pretty much turned into one big scroll these days. My job used to light me up, but now it feels like I’m chasing something that no longer exists—or maybe never did. It’s still particularly brutal online today too. So far, I’ve seen exactly seventy-two happy families in matching pajamas. It’s like the internet has a vendetta against me. I used to get a rush from tracking trends and engagement spikes. Now it just makes my skin itch. Lately, it feels less like storytelling and more like survival. That’s enough. I slap my phone face down in my lap.

I glance around. Strings of white lights crisscross overhead, casting a soft glow over the wooden beams and rustic décor. In addition to the peppermint and chocolate, the scent of something deliciously buttery lingers in the air, and for a moment I almost forget that I’m stranded in Bumblefuck in a blizzard.

Almost.

Now, a few other guests are tucked into corners too—sipping drinks, swapping stories, probably just as desperate to escape the cozy wallpaper and forced board games back in the inn.

I take another sip of my drink and glance back toward the barn door, as if staring at the swirling snow beyond the frosted windows will somehow make a usable plane ticket to LA appear in my hand. No such luck.

I spin around and lock eyes with my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. There I am in all my glory, wild dark curls desperately clinging to a messy bun that’s one head toss away from total rebellion, and enormous brown eyes framed by my best feature, real eyelashes so ridiculous they practically need their own zip code. But something feels cosmically off, like I’ve stumbled through a wardrobe into some alternate universe. I mean, seriously? It’s Christmas Eve, and instead of catching up with my family on the West Coast, I’m perched on a barstool in a barn on Long Island of all places! Talk about a plot twist. The universe clearly had one too many eggnogs before planning my day.

I shake my head. I refuse to be a sad sack. It’s bad for the skin. But a lump creeps up my throat before I can stop it. I push it down. Hard. I am not a crier. Especially not in public. Especially not at bars. But I can’t stop picturing my nieces in their matching flannel pajamas, tearing through wrapping paper and shrieking over each other, while Nonna demands someone help her find the remote so she can put on Mass. My dad will be teasing my mom about her obsession with Christmas-themed napkins, and Luca will be trying to sneak and light the fireplace even though he’s been banned since the Great Chimney Incident of 2017.