Page 126 of Mistletoe All the Way

And that’s how, a minute later, I’m in scrubs while my brother’s in a red fake-leather Santa coat, wishing happy holidays to the Halloween lover’s mom.

When we switch back and leave, Chris mutters, “You owe me.”

“How about I fire Vince when you inevitably rehire him because you’re too nice?”

He brightens. “You’re on.”

After Eloise and I drop off Chris, we hop back into the truck, checking the time. We’ve only got about fifteen minutes to get to the tree farm.

“Are you going to tell your grandfather at the competition?” she asks.

“The second I win the last challenge,” I say, squaring my shoulders, ready to wield a saw. I’ll picture Stephen as I cut.

She makes a sexy sound, low in her throat. “Why is that hot?”

“Because you want me,” I say—and I’m so much closer to solving the business problem. Too bad I still haven’t quite figured out the romance one.

For now, though, I have a contest to win for her and a conversation to have with my gramps. For my family. For my mom. For him.

And then I have a few more days with Eloise before maybe, possibly, hopefully, we can figure out a way to make this work next year.

Maybe then my workload will be more manageable.

Maybe then she’ll be settled in with her new firm.

Maybe then this will all be easier.

When we reach the Christmas tree farm with hardly any time to spare, my phone rings. It’s a Colorado number. But as soon as I try to answer it, the call dies. There’s no cell service here.

41 WHO’S OVERCOMPENSATING NOW

Noah

I’ll grant my cousin this—if the final challenge were a “make a Christmas cocktail” competition, he’d likely win it. But it’s not, and this guy knows how to cut a tree.

With speed. With precision. With no splintering.

Using one of the five hand saws Lucy brought over, I make a straight, low cut in the trunk of the first tree.

I don’t need Rowan’s coaching. Hell, I don’t even need the duster. I just work the saw in my T-shirt, jeans, and Santa-inspired cowboy hat while Eloise snaps pictures.

A farm employee catches the branches. One tree down.

I move to the next without wasting a second. I work quickly, neatly through the trees, the staffer catching them all and lining them up for the trees-for-the-town giveaway. Years of working on the farm for real have brought me to this moment. But so have years of work making precise cuts on furry friends.

I’m focused, careful, and good.

Unlike in the bedroom, this is one of the times when you want to finish first. And I do, setting down my saw before anyone else even reaches their fourth tree.

But I can’t simply rest on my laurels. I need to talk to my gramps, stat. I thank the tree farm staffer, shrug my duster back on, and give a Wish me luck smile to Eloise. I stride back down the row of trees to where the crowd is gathered several feet away, including the guys from the hotel group, watching with avid eyes.

Hoping their man wins?

Probably.

My muscles tense as I find my gramps, looking on proudly, wearing his flannel, his jacket, his work boots, and a no-nonsense grin. Looking like the man who taught me a lot about hard work.

Which often starts with honesty. This will be hard to say, but it’ll be harder for him to hear. I’ve got to treat every word I say with great care. “Do you have a second? There’s something on my mind.”