Page 29 of Mistletoe All the Way

“You know Wicked?”

“Yes, I’m educated about the arts. So sue me.”

“I love musicals.”

“Of course you do.”

“And let me guess—you like a side of crime drama or serial killers to go with your musicals?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I was saying.”

“What are you saying, Noah?”

I pause since I’m not sure I want to admit the truth—my annoyance is less about her showing up and more about me speaking up. I don’t relish being in front of crowds. It’s never been my thing. The lights, the cameras, the attention. I don’t know if I’m saying the right things, which means I might say the wrong things. And now there’s more attention than usual. Hell, there will be so much more with the Mr. Holiday competition.

But admitting that makes me sound… weak. I’m not sure I want her to see me that way. “I’m saying that this event—the decorations, the attention—it sounds like… a lot.”

There. That ought to cover it.

She gives a thoughtful nod. “I hear you.” There’s empathy in her tone, like she gets that this isn’t my thing. “But I thought about how to make Mr. Holiday blow up so you can show your grandfather that you know how to embrace Christmas, and so the town can see it too. And, Noah, you have such a heart for animals, and this is such a great campaign. We can really use it to help position you with Mr. Holiday. It’ll be easy, I swear.”

Once again, she makes good points. I drag a hand through my hair, trying to reset my thoughts. To cool off. But there’s another issue gnawing at me. “I thought we were trying not to trick each other. Didn’t we make a pinkie promise or something? Back at the Christmas market?”

She smiles, the kind that says she knows she kind of violated our truce. “Fae rules of lying?” She sounds hopeful—hopeful she’ll get away with this sneak attack.

I laugh. “Are you kidding me? That’s your defense?”

“I didn’t not tell you,” she says, like a fucking fae all right.

I sigh, the laughter fading. “Seriously. Why didn’t you ask before you came?”

She looks me straight in the eye. “Because I figured you’d say no.”

“I would have. But you showed up anyway?”

“Go big or go home,” she says with an unrepentant bob of her shoulders.

“So it’s the better-to-ask-for-forgiveness-than-permission philosophy?”

She bats her lashes. “Forgive me, grumpy cowboy vet.”

Dear god, those eyes. Those interesting eyes. They’re impossible to look away from in all their gemstone glory. There’s so much hope in her expression. She wants this to go well. She really does.

I relent. “Just maybe let me know when you have something up your sleeve next time.”

“I can do that,” she says, taking that on the chin, then lifting her canvas bag like it’s full of premium candy.

“Along those lines, would you rather wear sparkly antlers,” she asks, dipping a hand into the bag and brandishing a headband like the one Chris’s dog wore, “or this?” She plucks a red Santa hat from the bag.

“Neither,” I bite out.

“The Santa hat it is,” she says, then rises on her tiptoes, her sweater riding up once more, giving me a view of her stomach this time.

I swallow roughly. I try to tear my gaze away from that peekaboo of her softness, but I’m not that strong.

Which explains why I’m wearing a godforsaken Santa hat as we return to the lobby.

11 JUST A SHY GUY