Page 39 of Mistletoe All the Way

Noah lifts a very skeptical brow. “But we don’t even know they’re lawyers.”

Please. “If there’s anything I know it’s lawyers. My parents are attorneys. I can sense a lawyer vibe from a million miles away. Besides, who else wears suits these days but lawyers and politicians? No one. And they didn’t have red or navy ties.”

“So they’re not politicians.”

“See my point?”

He scrubs a hand across his beard, his eyes darkening. “Maybe they are lawyers,” he says, starting to come around.

“They met with him in the back! He glanced around and then followed them there. It was all very cloak-and-dagger.”

“Like he was checking for spying jollies?”

“Yes!”

He exhales, turning this over even more. “I hate to say this but Stephen being overconfident is the story of his life. I’m not saying you’re right. But him getting things lined up to win is very, very him. And it’s not like there’s anything technically wrong with him preparing,” Noah says begrudgingly.

“Very true. But if my theory is right, this just means we need to make sure your Christmas spirit is unimpeachable. We need to make the town love you, Mr. Holiday,” I say, letting those last two words roll playfully off my tongue.

“We’d better decorate the fuck out of that tree, then. Let’s get you some content for Mr. Holiday.”

He is indeed competitive, and it’s hot. “Ooh, I love it when you say words like content and brand.”

He nods to my plate and barks out, “Just eat.” But his lips twitch with a small smile. One that’s very satisfying.

I lift my fork and happily comply, finishing the delicious face-free meal.

After we clean up, we return to the living room, where he heads straight to the window, peering out at the street beyond. A soft, hazy ring halos the moon.

“Looks like snow,” he says contemplatively.

I move next to him, checking the view. The clouds are thick and low. I hum. Partly because of the snow, partly because he smells good this close—both outdoorsy and clean.

“Are you humming?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes. I love snow.”

“You hate cold but love snow?”

“I don’t hate cold. I get cold easily, and yet I’m in love with snow. Both can be true,” I say, and just for fun—I swear, just for fun—I bump my shoulder to his.

“Is there a bone in your body that’s not optimistic?” He sounds half exasperated and all amused.

I pretend to inspect my skeleton, tapping my elbow, my knee. “Nope. Which is why I flew out here this morning. I wanted to do something big for the competition. To get us both noticed—me by the mayor, you by your grandpa. Getting pictures of you at the kickoff event, and then here decorating your tree, can help our cause. That’s why I rolled the dice and paid for the tickets and the hotel at the last minute.”

“We’d better decorate quickly then.”

He’s right. Reality is nipping at my heels. I need to get back to the hotel soon. Too bad I already don’t want the night to end.

When Noah moves away from the window, my shoulder misses him way more than it should.

Noah peers at an empty section of the tree, studying it like it holds the meaning of life. After a moment, he chooses a branch and hangs a well-worn wooden sled on it. Music plays from speakers in the living room. I insisted on casting my Christmas playlist, so “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” thrums in the air.

Pretty sure Noah’s been doing his very best to ignore my tunes.

I’m doing my best to focus on him. Snapping photo after photo.

Now I’m holding my phone and shooting, so I narrate in a low voice, like a wildlife documentary host. “It’s never been seen before in the wild—the grumpy cowboy vet hangs a Christmas ornament.”