Page 11 of Mistletoe All the Way

This is what the San Francisco sports merchandise firm asked me too. But do you have experience managing an account this size?

I need to reassure the mayor I can handle the work no problem. Chin up, I plow forward. “I’ve lived in and loved Evergreen Falls since I moved here when I was seven. When promoting the hockey team, we often focus our marketing on things to do in Evergreen Falls when you come to a game. A game and a ride on the train to see the fall leaves. A game and a day at the lake. I would love to use that as a springboard to do more for the town in general. You’re looking to expand those efforts, I hear? Since Rosario is leaving in the New Year?”

She frowns at the mention of the town’s outgoing publicist. “Unfortunately. We’ll miss her. She has an opportunity to do PR for the university in Darling Springs.” She pauses, clearly thinking, maybe searching for the right diplomatic response. “But you haven’t done anything specific to small towns or Christmas before, have you?”

“No,” I say, owning it. “But no one loves Christmas more than me.”

Seriously, she has no idea. I practically raised myself on the holiday. It was my comfort when my parents weren’t.

Mayor Bumblefritz nods, the kind that says she’s wrapping up this conversation. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Eloise. Truly I do,” she says brightly before she winces, like this is going to be hard for her to say since she’s normally so positive. “But I have my hands full right now. We’re updating access to our digital records, and that’s taking up way too much brain space. Then there’s the Mr. Holiday contest, which Rosario is overseeing before she leaves, but that’s my baby of course,” she says, then chuckles, like she’s entertained by her own joke. “I saw it in a movie. It went well for us last year, with the competition attracting more visitors to the town.”

Hello, opening. “No wonder. It was so much fun—the sledding and the snow angel competition, as well as the Christmas charades,” I say, flashing back to when Ahsha from the Mistletoe Emporium won the inaugural Mrs. Holiday event. This year, it seems they’ve changed it to give it a male skew. “Ahsha miming melting to act out ‘Frosty the Snowman’ was chef’s kiss.”

“It truly exemplified maximum Christmas.”

“Your motto,” I say, and I don’t stop there. “And we could do a lot with the contest this year too. It’ll be a gold mine of photo ops and social media. I’m picturing the contestants decorating the town tree or hanging lights in shop windows. And those are just the promo images to get people to come to the festivities.”

The mayor lifts an eyebrow appreciatively, perhaps impressed that I remember all the details of last year’s contest and have ideas for this year’s. She taps her chin, and I cross my fingers and wait.

At last, she blows out a breath, and says, “Look, with the website update we have a lot going on for the rest of the year. And we aren’t going to make any decisions on PR until Rosario’s gone. But if you want a shot against the competition, maybe see if you can bring more people to the Mr. Holiday pageant?”

Did she just dangle an unofficial pre-interview assignment in front of me? I think I’ll snatch that right up, thank you very much.

“I would love to,” I say, but I also want her to know I’m a go-getter, so I add, “and then I can pitch you in the New Year?”

She gives me a smile that’s both placating and says she’s impressed. “We’re happy to consider your brand-new firm, but you should know the competition will be fierce just for the chance to pitch the tourism bureau. We have several city firms already lined up. You’d need to blow us all away.”

If that isn’t a challenge, I don’t know what is. Now I’ll just have to figure out how the hell to meet it.

“I look forward to the opportunity.”

All through dinner with my friends after class, I roll through ideas for Mayor Bumblefritz, and again on Thanksgiving in between the mashed potatoes, the green beans, and the fun times at Friends-giving at Aurora’s home. I’ve batted some concepts around, but I haven’t hit pay dirt yet.

On Friday I head to the Candy Cane Diner. Maybe I’ll find inspo there, since it’s a tourist destination in the town. I grab a booth, order some hot cocoa, then open my tablet, so I can jot down possible ideas to draw more eyeballs to Mr. Holiday.

Do I tie it into the town’s Christmas market somehow?

I write that down as “Santa Baby” floats through the diner’s sound system and sun reflects off the shoveled snow on the sidewalk. But before the singer even encourages St. Nick to hurry down her chimney tonight, I delete the idea. Not specific enough.

I grab my cup of hot cocoa and take a fortifying sip. The drink is rich and warm on my tongue, reminding me of the chocolate shop that opened earlier this year down Dasher Lane. Maybe we could encourage the bakery, the candy shop, and the chocolatier in town to do a sweet-tooth tour in tandem with the competition. I’m picturing mouthwatering photos of candy and chocolate on Evergreen Falls’ social, along with contest photos.

My fingers fly across the keyboard but stop short. Sounds fun for sure, but I’m just not obsessed with the option yet.

My goal has always been to find the stories behind a town, a product, a person. To share the happy news I discover. The more we look for the positive, the more we behave in a way that creates positivity—with kindness and compassion.

Where could I find a story like that about the Mr. Holiday competition? The contest starts in two weeks and is comprised of a series of challenges to compete for the prize of the most festive man in Evergreen Falls. Even if I don’t land the contract with the town, I can use whatever I come up with for my portfolio. This opportunity is such a win-win, but I need to hit just the right angle.

I drum my nails on the table. How do I find the perfect contestant who everyone will root for? One that I can find a story behind?

I nibble on the corner of my lips, returning to the screen and writing down ideas, so I barely notice the heavy clomp of boots until someone stops short in front of my table.

“Well, if it isn’t the jolly who likes tricking me.”

I burn a little in my chest. No, a lot, at the gravelly, husky sound of his voice, and the way it sends an annoying zing down my spine. Steeling myself, I raise my face and take in my new nemesis. I didn’t really know the Lennox twins when I was growing up here—I think they’re a few years older than I am.

And now? Noah looks like a hot fish out of water in his snug jeans and fake sheepskin jacket, and that black cowboy hat, tipped back and all devil-may-care-ish. I’m entranced by that thick beard, that smug mouth, and those sinful dark brown eyes.

Yes. It’s like a Christmas tree-lighting ceremony when someone flicks them on all at once and the bulbs are flashing brightly.