Page 30 of Mistletoe All the Way

Eloise

Nobody would mistake this man for charming. There’s no Smile for the camera vibe from Dr. Noah Lennox. Not a hint of Let’s get a beer.

He’s all facts, info, and grit in his voice as he rattles off details about what it means to have a pet—house-training, obedience, and walks for dogs; litter boxes, hairballs, and attitude for cats.

He’s standing in front of the Christmas tree in the corner, holding the leash of Frosty, a Swiss shepherd mix who’s wearing a Santa hat. It’s the cutest thing ever—the big girl sitting next to him, head tilted his way, a little elastic band under her snout to keep the hat in place.

Sailor and I put it on her earlier, when the shelter director, Champreet, picked the critters who’d appear for the photo op. Champreet’s holding an orange kitten in her arms and hanging out a few feet away from Noah. Sailor’s cradling a senior min pin mix named Clint, who’s wearing a red-and-green Christmas sweater.

I snap more pictures of Noah and the dog in the matching hats.

“And yes, sometimes they pee or poop in your home.”

Some of the kids laugh.

“But they also give you—” He stops talking, looks at the shepherd mix, and scratches her chin. Then, like this is hard for him, he adds, “Give you unconditional love.”

Champreet pops over and hands him Creamsicle as bells jingle from the red-and-green collar on her neck.

Noah takes the kitten and pets its head. “So, yeah, make sure you’re ready for the commitment, because kittens turn into cats, and puppies become dogs.”

He gives a quick nod. Doesn’t even say thanks. Just steps aside to let Champreet take over. Frosty follows him without a second thought.

Even though that wasn’t technically a knockout performance—not even close—my chest swells, and I know three things.

One: Mr. Holiday is going to be harder than I’d thought.

Two: Noah Lennox isn’t simply surly. He’s also, surprisingly, a little bit shy.

And three: I can do this.

I can so do this.

Once Champreet finishes, the press and influencers circulate, and I try to work my magic. I shoot a short video of Noah talking to a woman who goes by Jolie Reads and Rescues about fostering dogs like Frosty and Clint, and how that’s a great option for people who might not be able or ready to adopt yet. Next, I capture footage of him chatting with a features reporter for a local neighborhood site about the top three things someone should know before adopting. Each time someone comes up to him with a question or wanting a photo, I hand him a friendly kitten or an easygoing dog.

The man simply does better when in the presence of pets instead of people. An hour of photos and peopling later, and Noah looks like he wants to kill me. But I don’t take it personally. This has been a workout for him. His social battery must be dead.

I say goodbye to the last influencer. The door shuts behind her, and the noise fades. Champreet and Sailor must be busy returning the animals to their kennels and condos, since it’s just Noah and me now—and the lingering scent of pine from the Christmas tree.

“It’s official. I’m dead,” Noah says evenly.

“You’re holding up well for the deceased,” I say, and that’s an understatement. The truth is he looks devastatingly handsome in dark jeans that hug his legs, a black Henley that stretches across his pecs, and work boots. He’s not wearing his cowboy hat today—but I kind of find him weirdly hot in that Santa hat. Especially since I’m pretty sure he doesn’t realize he’s still wearing it. He could take it off now.

“Death by social media. Death by photographs. Death by… peopling,” he says as he heads toward the reception counter of the rescue.

“Yes, socializing does have some side effects,” I say, then try to reassure him by adding, “but you did great.”

He stops at the counter, eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you saying that?”

“Why would I not? It’s true,” I say, meaning it. I could tell the event wasn’t his favorite thing to do, and I want to reassure him he did well. Maybe it’ll help him for the next time.

But he furrows his brow even more. “You’re up to something.”

“Noah, seriously. I’m impressed—your passion for this comes through loud and clear. It was lovely to watch.”

His eyes narrow more. “Where did my nemesis go, and what have you done with her?”

“Don’t worry. I just wanted to tell you I thought you did well,” I say, since everyone likes praise, even a Grumpy McGrumpin like this man.