Page 121 of Mistletoe All the Way

“Hello, Cowboy Santa,” I say in an appreciative purr. I swear Rusty howls. Or maybe that’s my internal voice.

He drags a hand over his beard. “Why did I do this?”

“You can take the grump out of the man… but you can’t really,” I say, then nod to the door. “You ready? We’ll be extra early if we leave now, but we can take more pictures.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“You’ll like having your picture taken soon enough,” I say.

“Debatable.”

I grab my jacket when a loud rap on the door startles me. Rusty barks. I peer through the peephole, and my parents are staring back.

Smiling.

Like they’re up to something.

I open the door with a canyon of dread inside me. My mother sweeps in imperiously, then stops in her Louboutin tracks, blinking at the holiday hottie in my apartment and his trusty dog sidekick.

My father is less reserved. “What the hell? Did you pick someone up from a strip club last night?”

My mother swats him with her matching handbag. “Charles. Hush.”

“I can’t dance,” Noah deadpans. “So no worries there.”

I gesture to the man and dog by my side. “This is Dr. Noah Lennox. He’s a veterinarian and a contestant in Mr. Holiday. And his dog, Rusty.”

“Right, right, of course. And I hear it’s going so well,” my mother says, as if talking to a third grader.

What on earth are they here for? My stomach churns as I motion to the door. “I really have to go. If this is about Christmas Eve, I already said I would come. But Noah’s coming with me.”

My father snorts. “Not in that—”

“Oh, don’t worry. The coat’s hot. I’ll take it off at the table,” Noah says dryly.

If I weren’t so annoyed, I’d laugh at his deadpan take.

“Anyway, what can I do for you?” I say brightly this time, figuring I’ll catch more flies with honey and get them out of here sooner.

“We came over for something very exciting,” my mother says, sailing over to the couch and making herself right at home, then patting the cushion so my father can join her.

Okay. I head over too, taking a chair, Noah taking another. Rusty helps himself to the dog bed Noah brought over for him. But the lover of a canine has his guard up. He’s observing my parents with cautious eyes.

“All that social you’ve been doing? The contest, the photos, and the attention you were telling me about,” my mother says, upbeat and cheery. “I told the other board members at the country club, and they were so impressed.”

“Ah,” I say, taken aback. I didn’t see that coming. Cautiously, I add, “Thanks for sharing.”

“Anytime. And here’s the good news.” She leans forward, hands folded, eyes flickering with excitement. “They want to offer you a job.”

“They do? With my firm?”

My father scoffs, but Mom sets a hand on his thigh—her way of saying shut up. “They have a job job for you,” she says. “Full-time, with benefits. Marketing the club. They have some new projects coming up and will need someone in marketing full-time. Isn’t that fantastic?”

Um, yes, but no. “Thank you, but I’m not looking for a full-time role. I have a firm. I want to manage my own business.”

My dad brushes Mom’s hand away. “Your generation has such grand ideas. None of you want to put in the work. You can’t run your own firm until you’ve worked for others.”

“I have. Worked for others,” I point out.