Page 95 of Mistletoe All the Way

I head back into the barn, where Sal’s walking across a stall door, patrolling for rodents. He stops to shoot me a curious stare, like he can see the battle I’ve been waging inside my soul.

The Maine coon flicks his swishy tail like he’s saying, Good luck with that, buddy.

28 STRAIGHT OUT OF CENTRAL CASTING

Noah

Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?” Chris asks when he strides into the barn, a travel cooler in one hand, a bag of Churu in the other.

I stare dead-eyed at my brother, who’s pointing at my T-shirt, even as I shrug on a flannel I hung on a hook by the saddles.

“Pretend you never saw this,” I grumble.

With a shit-eating grin, he parks his hands on his hips, the cooler banging into his thigh. “Nope. Some things you can’t unsee. Like you, wearing a Christmas shirt.”

“It’s not a Christmas shirt,” I insist.

He scoffs. “I leave for two days, and you transform into—what—an elf?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m just doing it for the tree decorating in the town square.”

“Back it up. There’s so much happening in that sentence. Did I leave and return to a Webflix holiday flick?”

“Yes, one starring you as the charming vet who just went to San Francisco to shoot videos for his hot vet show, even though he has a studio here.”

“For self-shoots,” he corrects. “I go to the city when I need to do promos with my team.”

“My point exactly. I’m not the hero in this holiday story.”

He cracks up, then scratches his jaw with the hand holding the cat treats. “I am a pretty good hero. But let’s not talk about me.”

“You don’t want to talk about your favorite person?”

“Nope.” He pops the P. “I want to talk about you—and how the hell you became the main character in a small-town Christmas romance.”

I shudder. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Aww, the truth hurts.”

“It’s just for the contest,” I say, trying to leave the barn—trying to escape Chris—but he yanks one of the big doors shut and stands in the doorway of the other one, forming a personal barricade.

He studies me intently, the same brown eyes as mine narrowed, his gaze sharp. He’s silent, which is odd for my chatty, opinionated brother. He’s appraising me like I’m a patient—some wary dog he can’t quite examine yet but still needs to diagnose.

It’s unnerving.

“You’re doing this for a woman,” he says, a gleam of victory in his eyes.

Dammit. This is the problem with being an identical twin. Chris has twin sense.

“I’m doing it for the competition,” I lie, but he sees through that too.

He smirks. “You’re falling for her. You’re doing this for her.”

Tell me something I don’t know. “Let’s go make sure Sal doesn’t get rabies,” I say, nodding to the travel cooler I’m sure is full of the barn cat’s vaccines. Focusing on meds is easier. Admitting these feelings to myself is one thing. Saying it aloud to someone else is another, since it makes the impossible situation even harder.

Chris sets the cooler and the treats on the ground, then parks a hand on my shoulder, his expression unusually serious. “What are you going to do about it?”

I sigh, then shrug. “There’s nothing to do.”