“But do they? Really?” The lift in his voice called her out. “Or do they just keep your palms warm while your fingers stay cold? Like toeless socks or something.”
“I’ve never actually heard of toeless socks.”
His head bobbed in a deliberately slow nod. “Right. Because they wouldn’t really do anything.”
Rachel’s molars met and clamped together. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do.”
The man scooted his chair back, stretched out his long, jean-clad legs, and crossed one over the other at the ankles. “What kind of work?”
This guy had more questions than a greedy child had toys on a list for Santa. “Marketing and product development.”
“Ah, interesting.” He lifted his hot chocolate to his mouth, took a sip and held it there, then let out a satisfied hiss after swallowing. “So you’d be able to market fingerless gloves, since that’s your line of work.”
“If I wanted to.” What was this sudden challenge from a complete stranger in a coffeehouse? “Yes, I could market them.”
“Give it to me.”
“What?”
“Give me your best pitch.” He nodded toward her hands again. “For the gloves.” His head cocked to the side and a provoking grin perked up his lips. “I mean, you obviously bought them, so you should be able to tell me why I should too. Sell them to me.”
She didn’t have time for this, and yet everything within her wanted to justify her purchase to the exasperating stranger at the table beside her.
“Fine,” she relented. “When I’m typing for a long time, my circulation isn’t that great, so my hands get cold easily. But I find I type faster when my fingertips can feel the keys. These gloves help me with that. They keep my hands from cramping up with cold and keep my fingers moving fast,” she supplied in a rush. “There. Happy?”
Over the rim of his cardboard cup, the man grinned the most frustratingly appealing smirk. “Very.”
He didn’t bother her after that; not with words, anyway. But his presence next to her had Rachel as distracted as a dog in a yard full of squirrels. What was with this guy and his insistence that she prove herself to him? She didn’t need to prove herself to anyone. Not right now, at least. After the new year, she’d have to prove Mistlefaux’sworth in the global market as a necessary piece of holiday décor, but she had some time before that.
And shewouldprove her place as the unofficial Christmas Competition winner once her family’s tree shone brightly—front-and-center—at the celebratory lighting in the town’s square.
Some might call her competitive, but Rachel labeled it determination. And that wasn’t a bad thing, not in her line of work.
Still, she couldn’t place the familiar tug toward the coffee shop stranger, nor could she ignore her odd desire to set him straight. She knew the Christmas season should usher in feelings of love and warmth, but each time she glanced over and met his emerald eyes and caught his tempting grin, she turned ice cold.
It was almost enough to make her wish for a pair of normal gloves.Almost.
CHAPTER4
“Apuppy!” A young girl with a smattering of freckles and bouncing pigtails raced over to the dog bed, about to smother Scout in a flurry of affection.
“Wait, Emma. You need to ask permission first. It might be a working dog.”
Holden appreciated the mother’s instruction and smiled at the thoughtful comment. “Scoutisa working dog. But she’s not working right now and she would absolutely love a good snuggle. Go for it.”
At that green light, the girl dove onto the dog, getting lost in a blur of golden fur, tail wagging, and tongue licks.
Scout never failed as the main attraction for young children at the rental shop. Something about a happy dog just drew kids in. And a golden retriever? That was like a puppy jackpot. There was a reason the breed was so well-loved. For most people, it was the playful nature that made the canine a top pick as a family dog.
But Holden appreciated Scout for an entirely different reason. The animal had a work ethic and drive like no other, and after almost one-thousand hours of training, she was finally eligible for validation as an Avalanche Rescue Dog. In one week’s time, Scout would be tested out on that mountain, and as his handler, Holden knew his girl would pass with flying colors. She was born to do this, made for the search.
“What sort of job does she do?” A man—the father of the young girl, Holden figured—squatted and ran his palm along the top of Scout’s fuzzy head, getting a nudge from a wet, black nose in return. “She doesn’t lead the snowmobile expeditions, does she?”
It was meant as a joke, but there was an ounce of truth in it. “She’s not the best at driving the machines,” Holden teased. “What with the lack of opposable thumbs and all.” Holden wiggled the two fingers in question. “But she does know how to ride on the back of one, and I’ll be bringing her out on our trek today.”
“You will?” The girl’s eyes sparked with unbridled excitement. “She won’t fall off?”
“Nah. She’s got great balance.”
