Page 20 of Mistletoe All the Way

I scan the kitchen, catching a glimpse of a fruit-and-cracker assortment on the counter. “He already did,” I say, pointing to the gift.

But being right is only a small consolation prize, since tomorrow I’ll not only have to man up, I’ll have to endure the Christmas market.

I’d rather eat coal.

I crunch through the snow, carrying another bale of hay. Gramps had a delivery of twenty bales this morning, and I’m nearly through hauling all of them into the barn.

I walk through the red doorway and set this bale down in the corner.

“Thanks again, kiddo. That’s real helpful,” Gramps says, looking up at me from where he’s filling a trough with water for Pepper.

“No problem,” I say. “Happy to do it.”

Where’s Stephen now? Not helping out. But I am.

I head back out onto the snow-covered land that stretches for miles through the woods. The sun’s shining brightly and it’s cold, but I roll up my shirtsleeves since it’s been a workout this morning. A cardinal flies by, landing in a nearby evergreen. At the fence, I bend to grab one of the last bales, then I look up.

Eloise is here, several feet away, snapping a photo of me lifting hay.

“What the hell?”

She keeps shooting. “Don’t stop on account of me.”

“Eloise,” I warn.

“Look, you just rolled up your shirtsleeves and showed off your forearms. It’s a sin if I don’t take pictures.”

“I was not showing off my forearms. It was getting hot.”

She smiles evilly. “Tell me about it.”

I narrow my eyes at her on the other side of the fence.

“Yes! More of that,” she enthuses. “The stern, broody look works.”

I roll my eyes, then turn away from her, carrying the bale to the barn. She’s laughing as she takes more pics.

I return and pick up the final bale.

“How much does that weigh?” she asks.

“About fifty pounds,” I say.

“That explains the arms.”

I smother a smile, then shoot her another sharp stare when she lifts her phone again. “Don’t you have enough photos?”

“It would be impossible to have too many.”

When I’m done, I stride back across the snow, wiping the hay bits off my palms, then stop at the fence. “Aren’t you sneaky.”

“You already knew that though,” she says, too pleased. She checks the time on her phone. “Gotta go. I have to meet someone at the Christmas market in forty-five minutes.”

She takes off, and I swear she’s practically skipping.

8 ONE GOOD CHRISTMAS TRICK DESERVES ANOTHER

Noah