Page 2 of Mistletoe All the Way

Outside, snowflakes sting my cheeks. I glance again at the woman with the pretty, pale, heart-shaped face. She’s crouching by the red truck, phone in one hand, kit in the other, her gaze bouncing between them. Maybe she’s not so tire savvy after all.

I started this trip last night after my final appointment of the day—an owner who wanted to know why her German Shepherd only responded to commands in English. Last thing I want to do is interact with anyone right now, but leaving her stranded in the snow isn’t an option. Gramps taught me better.

“Load up, Rusty.” I open the back door of my truck, pat the car seat, remove the booties, and secure my dog. I pocket the candy, grab my cowboy hat to keep the flakes out of my eyes, then crunch across the lot toward her.

When I reach her side, I clear my throat. “Hey there. I’m Dr. Lennox,” I say, because doctor sounds less like “serial killer” than a name alone, and you’ve got to do your best to reassure people you’re not one of the bad guys these days.

She tilts her head my way, eyes wary, and… whoa. I see heterochromia in huskies and Aussie shepherds, but hardly in humans. She has different-colored eyes: One’s green like a tree in the forest; the other’s blue as a tropical sea, and both are devastating.

My pulse spikes, but I shove aside her knock-me-to-my-knees looks, nodding to the tire. “Need help? Don’t worry. I’m not a serial killer.”

Relief softens her features, followed by a grin. “And hopefully not a onetime-only killer either?”

“Correct. Nor a spree killer. Or a hit man.”

“Ah, we have a true crime fanatic here?”

“Nope. I prefer fictional crime. The more chilling the better. You?”

“God no. I like happy news only. Real happy news,” she says, and I fight off an eye roll, because… is there even such a thing?

“I do, however, know how to use a tire-repair kit for real,” I say, and her pretty pink lips twitch, maybe in a hint of a grin, so I keep going. “Happy to help if you need it. But if you moonlight as a mechanic, I’ll leave you to it.”

Her smile is glittery. “My moonlighting is something else entirely,” she says in a tone that’s playful and welcoming but also stokes my curiosity—what does she moonlight as?

“And I would love some help, Dr. Lennox,” she says, then lowers her voice to a whisper. “Also I totally know you’re not a serial killer or an ax murderer. I follow you on social. Love your show.”

Social media is right up there on my list of favorite things alongside drying my face with sandpaper, drinking tar, and, well, socializing. I’m about to grumble, “I’m not that Dr. Lennox,” but I swallow that response down stat.

Remember the game, man.

Not only can I help a woman who needs it, I can snag some easy points in the twin game. As long as I prove I’ve pulled it off. The rules are simple—pretend to be the other one until it stops being fun and always document a win. Messing with my brother is one of the few holiday traditions I can get behind.

“That’s me,” I say, easygoing and light, like Chris.

“You do such great work with The Hot Vet,” she says.

Seriously? Is this what my brother’s life is like? People throwing themselves at him since he knows how to operate a phone camera and a smile?

Well, yeah. Seems it is.

I give a humble shrug. “Just doing my part,” I say as I reach for the tire-repair kit.

But as I stand back to assess the damage, I spot a host of bumper stickers on her truck.

Nice until proven naughty.

I’ve been good-ish all year.

Dear Santa, I can explain.

Ah, hell, she’s a devout jolly. And there’s little I enjoy more than trying to deprogram one of the devoted. Well, if I’m going to be stuck in the Evergreen Falls area for Thanksgiving weekend, I might as well have some fun.

2 JOLLY ALL THE WAY

Eloise

Of course I know how to work a tire-repair kit. What kind of self-respecting, patriarchy-smashing, independent woman hasn’t learned that from YouTube?