Page 108 of Mistletoe All the Way

Nope. That’s too close to Mr. Holiday.

I’m filing my business license for my PR firm.

Yes, that works perfectly as an excuse even though, clearly, I’ve already done that.

I tug on the door quietly and head down the corridor near the wall, padding softly, hoping against hope he doesn’t turn around.

But he doesn’t. He turns into a room at the end. My pulse speeds, and when I reach room 102, I check the sign: BUSINESS LICENSING AND PERMITS SERVICES.

But why would he be going there? There’s only one thing you’d get in that room—a license to operate a business. Or a renewal for one. That night I popped into St. Nick’s Hangout to get the lay of the land, his liquor license was hanging by the main entrance, where you’d expect it. It was up to date too. So what is he here for? As I replay him photographing the horses, him dropping into the tack shop, then his supersecret business partner asking about selling horses, then learning Stephen has a supersecret business partner, the pieces that didn’t make sense at all start to fall into place. He would need a new license if he was… opening a whole new location. A location I watched him take photos of.

I gasp, then rush back out, determination powering every step. I have a hunch what he’s up to, and what he plans to do with Silver Bells. We didn’t need to worry he might mismanage Silver Bells or drive it into the ground. He’s planning something else entirely. My teeth grind as I drive with my fingers curled around the wheel to Henry’s home and drop off the antlers with my grandmother. Then I return to Chris’s vet clinic, fueled by righteous anger across the yard and to the shed.

I rap on the door, and Noah lets me in. I bite my tongue for a while though, since it’s time for the photo shoot.

We wrestle the big boy into the big sweater, then assemble the family of rescue pups into the sleigh bed in their red and green outfits. The two vets hold up peanut butter biscuits to get the doggos to look at the camera.

But I don’t lift the camera to shoot yet. “Noah, you need to be in there.”

His face is stony. “I do?”

“It’s awkward family Christmas photos,” I explain, a little surprised he didn’t quite realize this. I told him he needed a sweater, too, when we devised the idea together. “You’re the contestant. I told you that you had to be in it.”

“Right, but it’s family photos.”

“Noah, are you doing the fae rules again?”

His eyes flicker with… a sort of raw intensity. A strength even. “No. The dogs are family. People like to see dogs. Not me.”

I don’t want to remind him it’s in the rules because I can see his heart. I can tell his intention. He’s not trying to wiggle his way out of this entirely. He’s trying to focus on the animals. “I’ll keep you in the background, them in the foreground. Just kneel behind them? And smile if you can.”

“You can do it, Grinch,” Chris says, fighting a laugh.

“I don’t have a sweater,” Noah says.

I roll my eyes, then nod to Chris. “Give him yours, please.”

As if he couldn’t be happier to strip, Chris tugs off his sweater, leaving on just a T-shirt, and tosses his Merry Sithmas sweater to his brother.

Noah grumbles but pulls it on.

Chris stands behind me, making whistling noises and holding up biscuits to get the pups’ attention as I shoot.

When we’re done, I flip open my laptop, touch up the best ones, then show them to the contestant. We pick one, then submit the picture to the contest website. The photos will be displayed at the Christmas market tonight for townspeople to vote on in person. That ensures there won’t be any digital vote rigging.

Once Chris leaves, Noah nods to the dogs. “I need to take them to a foster home. They’ll be there for the holidays.”

“I’ll go with you. We can take my truck,” I say.

As we wrangle the dogs into crates, I’m a soda can about to pop. I’m bubbling over. Once we’re ready to get on the road, I turn to Noah and blurt out, “I know why he’s planning to sell the horses if he gets the farm.”

He tilts his head, his eyes glimmering with question marks. “What happened?”

“I saw Stephen at city hall,” I say in a hush, even though it’s just us. “And I think he’s going to get another liquor license, this one for Silver Bells. He was in the business permits and licenses office—same place I went when I was setting up my firm. There are only a couple things you do there. You renew a license, or you apply for a license.”

“You think that means he’s going to expand his bar onto the Silver Bells property?”

“Yes!” I’m emphatic because that’s all it can be. “And that’s why he wouldn’t want to keep the horses.”