Page 111 of Mistletoe All the Way

Wilder clicks to the next image. Sebastian’s lying down in front of the tree, wearing Christmas pj’s, nose in a book, glasses on. Three women are sprawled on top of him, wearing matching pj’s. I’m betting those are his adult sisters, who are pulling his hair and trying to distract him from the book.

Clever too.

A woman shouts, “Dear Santa, send me a man who reads for Christmas.”

“I’ll take three, please,” a man shouts.

Next is J. J. Washington, the affable man who runs the North Pole Nook. In his picture, he’s sitting on Santa’s lap, his face scrunched up, like a little kid crying.

Not bad at all, since it’s so familiar. So many kids have been him.

Fable takes the clicker, but before she speaks, Eloise’s breath hitches. I turn to her, my brow crinkled in curiosity. Eloise flaps her hand surreptitiously, motioning to a woman with a straight nose, pale skin, and blond hair who’s standing a few feet ahead of us, while Stephen’s near the dais, farther away.

Eloise cups my ear. “That’s the horse shop lady.”

I furrow my brow, running through scenarios. “Is she friends with Stephen? Or are they meeting up for, what, a sale?”

“I don’t know,” Eloise says. “But I plan to find out.”

And just like that my heart beats faster. That’s so her. “You and your murder-mystery mind,” I say, appreciatively.

“Phillipa calls it my murder-board brain.”

“Whatever you call it, I like it,” I say.

And a part of me can’t believe I find her murder-board brain so endearing. But then again, considering what I listen to for fun, I suppose I can understand why this is another reason I can’t stop thinking about her.

For now though, I turn my attention back to Santa’s Grotto, where Fable toggles to Stephen’s photo. He’s—holy shit—dining with Gramps and Grams at a Christmas table. His dad is there, too, and all their forks and knives are raised. Only Stephen’s clearly squatting underneath the table, since it appears as if his head is on a silver platter in the middle of the spread. He must have been kneeling under the table, with a cutout for his head. Either that or he photoshopped the hell out of himself. My vote is the latter.

“But did it need any seasoning?” That’s the sheriff once again.

Stephen’s standing near the dais, and he flashes the sheriff a smile: “Just a little pepper.”

The crowd laughs.

Fuuck.

He’s so annoyingly likable when he wants to be.

Eloise blows out a worried breath, shooting me an apologetic frown. Like it’s her fault my cousin knows how to finesse his way through this contest.

I reach for her mittened hand and squeeze it. I should have done the same as these guys. Put myself out there more. I’m well aware of my fatal flaw in this contest before the picture of the dogs and me even flashes on the screen. I didn’t embarrass myself. I didn’t let go. I didn’t go far enough. I just smiled with some dogs—that’s all.

But isn’t that the story of my life? I prefer the company of animals. I don’t let down my guard with people.

“And here’s Dr. Noah Lennox with… aww,” Fable says, then reads off the names of the pups. “Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen.”

Lucy whips her gaze to me and remarks loudly in a deadpan tone, “I guess you are endorsed by reindeers.”

I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, giving a small smile, wishing the spotlight weren’t on me. But it is, so I say with more vulnerability than I’m used to, “And I’d really like to find them forever homes for the holidays.”

It shouldn’t be hard to say. Rescue is part of who I am and what I do. But speaking here, in public, in front of all these people I hardly know, isn’t as easy as doing my regular Pets Aren’t Just for the Holidays campaign back in Mountainville.

Maybe because this is my hometown, and I’m known as the guy who took off. Who left shortly after his mom died. Who’s barely returned.

That’s how they see me.

Maybe rightfully so.