Page 77 of Snowed Inn

ME: emotionally, not gastrointestinal

EL: Jesse?

ME: yeah

EL: did he kiss you?

ME: yes

EL: and???

ME: i liked it

EL: DUH

I toss the phone on the couch like it betrayed me.

This is spiraling. I’m spiraling.

I have officially become the girl who catches feelings for a guy who works in a barn, sports a day-old beard, and has the audacity to actually care about people.

I need caffeine. And possibly an emotional exorcism.

I march into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection.

“Get it together, Maria,” I whisper. “It’s just a kiss.”

My reflection doesn’t look convinced.

This is not normal. This is not how I operate.

My relationship with Jesse—whatever the hell it is—has officially gone off the rails. I need someone to talk me off the ledge, someone to tell me to leave, to change my flight to today and get the hell out of here before I do something else reckless.

ME: Tell me I’m not insane for kissing a man who may own less than five shirts.

Luca replies immediately: Insane? No. Suprising? Perhaps. And . . . for the record . . . FINALLY! How was it?

ME: good. like REALLY good.

LUCA: just promise me if you marry him, we’re buying him a sixth shirt together.

I smile down at my phone, absurdly grateful for my brother.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard to ask him if I should get on the next flight to LA.

But . . .

I already know the truth.

I’m not leaving. Not yet.

Tonight is New Year’s Eve. El will be here later. I could text her again right now and ask her to be my voice of reason, but what’s the point?

I know myself too well. I’m going to see this through. The party. The inn. And whatever the hell is happening with Jesse.

A half dozen rationalizations fly through my brain. He only kissed me because I asked him to. I only kissed him because of the cider. It wasn’t real.

Only, here’s the problem. It felt real.