Page 14 of Mistletoe All the Way

Lowering her voice, she tips her forehead toward the back of the house, perhaps toward the manager. “Phillipa and I are good friends. She mentioned it at some point. Sounds like he ran into some hard times and was struggling with how to manage a seasonal business. The ordering and everything for the slow months compared to the holidays, she said.”

Oh, the irony. Stephen acts like he’s some expert Christmas-town businessman. I knew my gut was telling me something the other night at Gramps’s party. “How does he think he’s going to manage two then? And two different ones?”

Eloise shrugs. “He’s oily and ambitious.”

It seems Eloise has the same bullshit detector I do. “How did you know I don’t like him either?”

She smiles like it’s obvious. “You strike me as the type who sees through people real fast.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I say, right as Phillipa swoops in with the sandwich and fries.

“Here you go. See you soon,” she says as she sets down the plate.

“Thanks,” I grumble, thinking again of my cousin’s efforts to undermine me the other night with his digs.

Beneath the table, the toe of a boot kicks my shin. I wince as my leg barks. But I get the not-so-subtle message delivered by Eloise’s foot. I snap my gaze up, slapping on a smile at Phillipa. “Can’t wait to see Trashy P,” I say, going out on a limb with a Chris-ism. My twin would definitely shorten Trash Panda’s name. Especially since—I just remembered Chris has mentioned Phillipa a few times—they’re good friends.

“Thanks, Doc,” she says, laughing, before sailing off.

When she’s gone, I drop the smile. My cheeks hurt from the fakeness of it all, and I give one a gentle massage.

Eloise snorts a laugh. “Was it really so hard to be cheery?”

Sometimes it is. It has been since my mom died and I saw all the ways life could go wrong. I grab the ketchup bottle and squeeze some onto my plate, avoiding her question by asking one of my own. “How do you think you can get me the farm?”

She squares her shoulders, sitting a little taller. Her forest-green sweater slopes slightly down on one side, exposing a sliver of creamy, pale skin, dotted with a few freckles that look thoroughly kissable. Her throat is long and elegant. Her heart-shaped face is hard to look away from. Hell, even her ears, with small silver snowflake earrings, are pretty.

I focus on her eyes though as she says brightly, with so much confidence, “Because this Ms. Jolly is your brand-new publicist.”

I freeze with a waffle fry halfway to my mouth. No way I heard her right. “Excuse me? Publicist?”

“Yes. I own a PR firm, Uplift Communications, and as a lover of Christmas, holidays, and all things festive, I believe I can help you win the farm,” she says, like it’ll be no problem, “since to win it you’ll need to be likable. A popular town business like that needs an owner who’s good with people.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s be honest—that’s not easy for you.”

She pulls no punches. She’s not wrong though. I picture the lines at Stephen’s bar, the easy way he has with patrons. He’s the quintessential guy you could get a beer with. Maybe he had some bumps years ago, but his business seems fine now. Thriving, even. That’s tough competition.

“Four-legged animals would beg to differ,” I say defensively.

“No doubt, but if you want to beat Stephen, you’ll need to win at your cousin’s game—being the guy who charms everyone, especially at the holidays.” Eloise’s lips curve up triumphantly. “And I can help you do it.”

I can see where she’s going. Gramps’s wishes at the retirement party were crystal clear—he wants someone to carry on his mission at the farm of spreading the holiday spirit. I’d planned to focus on showing him I’m good with animals. That’s what I bring to the table, so I’ll need to lean on that in my pitch. Still, I’m intrigued by Eloise’s offer.

“Fine, how?” I ask as I lift my sandwich and take a bite.

“I want to enter you in the Mr. Holiday contest.”

I nearly choke on the fake-chicken sandwich. “You can’t be serious?” I ask once I finish chewing.

“I assure you, I don’t joke about Christmas contests.”

“What the hell even is Mr. Holiday?”

“It’s sort of like a pageant.”

I recoil. “Pageant? You want to enter me in a pageant? Have you met me?”

Her smile is wry and smart-alecky, and it heats my blood more than it should. “I have, Noah. I have. And that’s why you’d be great.”

“Have you lost your mind? What about me screams pageant?”