Page 127 of Mistletoe All the Way

“Of course,” Gramps says, smirking as he gives me a once-over. “Nice outfit.”

I pluck at the faux fur. “Just spreading some holiday cheer.”

And I mean it this time.

Gramps gives an approving smile as we move away from the crowd. “Nice to hear that.” He adds in a stage whisper, “Your heart’s not so black.”

“It’s not,” I say, passing the cottage at the entrance of the farm with snow from last night gently covering its roof. We stop near a copse of juniper trees, branches dusted with flakes.

I take off the hat, maybe because it makes me a little more vulnerable. Maybe because I want Gramps to see that. “I understand you might not pick me to inherit the farm.” I blow out a breath. “But don’t pick Stephen,” I say, with the strength of conviction that I need to deliver bad news. This isn’t about me anymore. This isn’t about my beef with my cousin. It’s not over barbs like Who’s over-compensating or I almost didn’t recognize you. And this isn’t about me winning fair and square and proving I’m the better man. This is about the decades of hard work that my grandfather, my grandmother, and my mom put into that farm, the land, and all those animals who call Silver Bells Sleigh Rides home.

“I’d rather you sell it to someone else. Or heck, even give it to Priya. It just can’t be him.”

Gramps tilts his head. A line digs into his brow. “Talk to me.”

He folds his arms across his chest, but not in anger. More like he’s holding his position and listening.

“I know this isn’t going to be easy to hear,” I begin because whether I like Stephen or not doesn’t matter. Gramps likes him. Stephen has helped him. He’s shown up in the past. But this is the present. “He went to the zoning office a couple days ago to ask whether the Silver Bells property could be rezoned for commercial hospitality. He’s been spending time with some hotel group investors. They’re here today—the slick guys in the cashmere sweaters and peacoats.”

Gramps nods, like he remembers them.

“They met with him at his bar a few weeks ago. And last week Eloise ran into him taking pictures of the horses at the barn, then visiting a tack shop, likely to inquire about selling them. I know this might seem circumstantial, but I really don’t think it is.”

Gramps’s eyes flicker with real concern as he drags a hand across his beard, nodding for me to keep going. Briefly, I wonder if I should tell him Stephen has a secret partner, that he doesn’t own his bar outright like he claims. But that feels like piling on. And really, the point isn’t that Stephen might not be so savvy at business. The point isn’t even that he has a history of covering up his tracks.

The point is what he’s doing now. I stick to the pertinent facts.

“If I’m wrong, so be it, but I think you should either give the farm to someone else or really question him. I don’t want to see your legacy turned to ash.”

He blows out a heavy breath. “That’s a lot to level at someone.”

I nod. “I know. But I’m not doing this for you to pick me,” I say, tapping my sternum. “You’ve always taught me about showing up, working hard, giving your all and giving back. I want the farm to go to somebody who understands what you’ve been trying to do there—share some happiness, some time outside, some time with family or loved ones. And I want it to go to somebody who respects and honors all the creatures that live and love on it.”

He sighs, his eyes shining. “Why do you have to make this goddamn hard, kid?”

He’s conflicted. That much is clear, but when he pinches the bridge of his nose, it’s not so much conflict I see anymore in his expression but hurt. Disappointment. And probably some real shame that he missed this side of Stephen. He believed in the good of people only to find out he was wrong.

“I’m sorry to bring this news to you. I just want the best for you and Grams and the farm. And Honey, Pepper, Calliope, and Ruby.”

His jaw is tight, his lower lip quivering, as he fights off emotions. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters.

I reach for his shoulder, squeezing it in comfort as the sound of boots clomping through the snow grows louder. Then a familiar jovial voice reaches my ears.

“Did you see me? I didn’t do too bad for a bartender.”

Turning to Stephen, Gramps wastes no time cutting to the chase. “Is it true you want to sell Silver Bells to a hotel group?”

Stephen jerks his head back. He blinks, swallows, then speaks in a wobbly voice. “What do you mean?”

He says it like he’s buying time.

“Are you angling to sell the property if I give it to you when I retire?” Gramps clarifies, even though his first question was damn clear to me.

Stephen jerks an arm, pointing to me. “Is that what Noah told you? He’s been following me around. He followed me around the Christmas market.”

“Again, that’s not a denial,” I point out.

Stephen snaps his gaze to me. “Who are you to talk? You’re never here. You don’t get to come here and make things up about me because you and your girlfriend decided to stalk me.”