Page 23 of Mistletoe All the Way

“Sorry for my big dick.”

She shoots me a glare.

“I’m just saying.” I shrug.

“Noah.”

“Sometimes it makes me be one.”

“Noah.”

I try again. “Sorry I was a big dick. Not sorry I have one.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And that’s why you want to transform me,” I say.

“You have me there. Because you are the ultimate Everest.”

Ah, hell. I can’t help myself. “That’s what she said.”

With an eye roll, she shakes her head. “It’s a wonder animals like you.” She pats Rusty’s soft head again. “But they seem to. And even though you’re a smug, cocky, grinchy veterinarian, being a vet is the key to your makeover for Mr. Holiday,” she says, resuming her pace.

I lift a finger to object because that’s way worse, but she barrels on.

“People like animals. And people like vets because they take care of animals. We’ll lead with you being a vet. Like mentioning your Pets Aren’t Just for the Holidays annual campaign.”

“Stalk much?” I’m not sure if I should be impressed or worried that she knows the specifics of the work I do for the animal rescue in Colorado every holiday season, educating the public about the responsibilities of pet ownership.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s literally my job to research my clients.”

I suppose it is, but I can’t seem to resist sparring with her. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I need to know who I’m working with,” she says as we walk toward a stall offering all varieties of red, green, and gold handmade candles. “I looked you up. Studied you. I’m good at what I do.”

It’s said with pride, and actually, it’s impressive that she does her homework so thoroughly. “I stand corrected.”

She cups her ear, then looks at my dog. “Wait. Is that two apologies in five minutes, Rusty?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Ms. Jolly.”

“I won’t,” she says to me. “But I will stay a step ahead of you. Like this—the Pets Aren’t Just for the Holidays campaign shows you already have a heart for animals and the season. I think we can do something with it when entrants for Mr. Holiday are announced in the town square. When we present you, we can mention your campaign.”

There are so many things wrong with those words I hardly know where to start. I stop in my tracks. “There’s a presentation? And a stage? And people think this is fun?”

“It is fun,” she insists, and we stroll down another row at the market, passing artists offering handmade ornaments of sleds and horses.

My gaze snags on one that reminds me of my mom’s favorite ornament—a palomino. She loved horses. Loved to ride them in the snow especially. But I turn away from it, focusing on Eloise as she talks more about this announcement like it’s coronation day.

“And the mayor will say a little something about each contestant, like a bio, then introduce them to the crowd. A good first impression is key in front of the townspeople—they vote on winners for each event. That’ll be the perfect time to let the public know about your charitable work with your campaign. And Rusty can be there with you.”

“Nice idea, but I don’t really do it for publicity,” I say, since I don’t want the campaign to get twisted and turned around.

“I know.” Her voice softens with sympathy. “But for you to get the farm, you’ll need to develop a teeny bit of a public persona. I’ll need to put you—gasp—online.”

I shudder but then raise my chin, so I can take my medicine. “What do you have in mind?”

“You said you were returning to Colorado soon?”