Page 12 of Mistletoe All the Way

Thank you, big, beautiful brain. I know exactly how to nail the blow-us-away brief.

All I need to do is create a small-town hero out of this grump.

5 TWO CAN PLAY

Noah

If it isn’t Mr. Anti-Christmas,” she says with a smile on those pretty lips and something like excitement in her voice. For a fleeting second, a strange dash of hope rushes through my cells at the thought that it’s excitement to see me, especially when she adds, “The man I was just thinking about.”

I blink. Swallow roughly. She… was thinking about me?

But then I smack some sense into myself. I came into this diner only to grab a fake-chicken sandwich—I hear the owner makes a mean batch of waffle fries to go with it—then to figure out how the hell I can convince Gramps to leave his farm to me. I don’t need to hit the road for Colorado till the end of the weekend, so while I’m here I want to get a little more lay of the land. Figure out how to make that pitch. I already have an idea of what I want to do with the farm since a couple of the lead horses are getting too old to pull sleighs. Honey will need to retire soon. Pepper too. Pretty sure Gramps will like my plan.

But right now I’m focused on the woman pointing to the seat across from her. Wary, I ask, “You want me to join you?”

“Shocking, I know.”

“I’m guessing you liked Twisted Nights and want to tell me all about it,” I say, still standing next to the booth. I don’t know why—but giving in to her by sitting down feels risky. She looks like a woman who’s always a few steps ahead, and the sparkle in her eyes is downright evil-genius level right now.

“Don’t you wish I listened to that show,” she taunts.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Noah,” she says, biting it out, making it clear she knows my name. She’s got the upper hand, especially since I don’t know hers. “I didn’t stop you in the diner to dish about an audio drama. I have bigger things on my mind.”

All right. I’m officially dying to know why I’m the man she wants to see. “Fine, I’ll bite, Ms….?”

“Eloise,” she supplies, and that suits her. A pretty name, a classic name, a literary name.

“Eloise Noel,” I tease.

“Eloise Langston,” she says, then gestures to the booth once more. “Join me.”

“You about to pretend you need help ordering and then dine and dash?”

“That really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“I’m simply pointing it out.”

Tipping her head back, she laughs. If a laugh could be a sword, this one is. When she stops, she says, “I pretended I couldn’t fix a tire. You pretended you were someone else. I’d say we’re even.”

Maybe. “For now.”

“Oh, just sit, you big grump.”

“Fine.” I slide in across from her, bracing myself for whatever might come my way. Maybe she’s going to tell me I was a dick the other day. Maybe I should say I’m sorry. But instead, I observe Eloise as she steeples her fingers. Her nails are shiny. They’re white, mostly. The tips are silver, with bright red diagonal stripes. Christmas nails, of course. Her lips are a shiny, glossy pink. Her gaze is calculating but warm at the same time as she asks, “What do you want most in the world right now?”

Wait. What? That’s her question? “A fake-chicken sandwich with waffle fries,” I say dryly.

“Done,” she says, then stretches an arm across the table, grabs my hat from my head, and drops it on the seat next to me.

“What the—”

“Oh, hush,” she says, then pushes off my jacket too, and damn. I didn’t expect to be undressed—fine, just the outerwear—by this fiery beauty today. I shrug the jacket off the rest of the way. She stretches her arm closer one more time, then smooths along my beard with her soft hand.

That’s good, her warm palm on my face. So good, a rumble threatens to work its way up my chest. My skin turns hot. I barely have time to process her unexpected but not unwelcome touch when Eloise drops her hand and waves to a woman in a red apron on the other side of the diner, trying to get her attention.

A few seconds later, the woman arrives at the table, her silver manager name tag glinting in the light.