Page 27 of Mistletoe All the Way

“I hear you. But I’m not working. I’m volunteering at the rescue clinic,” I say, nodding toward the end of the hall. We share space with Little Friends Mountainville and provide services for their animals as well as our patients.

“That seems like a technicality,” Alonzo says.

“But technicalities matter. I’m not actually working,” I say, making air quotes. “I’m helping with their vaccination clinics for free—and, of course, the campaign. Kickoff is this morning.”

“Vaccinations are work,” he says.

I press my hands together. “But the kittens, Alonzo. They need it. And kitten season’s almost over.”

He rolls his eyes. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, do something fun for the holidays. I need you to.”

Will the Mr. Holiday contest be fun and relaxing? Only in the way a root canal is. But hey, that’s what laughing gas is for. “Tell you what. I’ll take a hike in the snow with Rusty.”

“There you go,” Alonzo says, finally relenting. “Maybe go ice-skating. Or do some caroling. Start a little Secret Santa on your street.”

Considering I live alone with a couple rescue horses at the end of a quarter-mile-long driveway, my neighbors include chipmunks, cardinals, and squirrels. “Good advice. I’ll definitely round up the crew.”

I can’t wait to see what Rocky the squirrel gets me. If I’m a betting man, though, I’d say it’ll be nuts and berries like every year.

“You do that,” Alonzo says.

I gesture down the hall. “I need to make sure everything’s ready for our Pets Aren’t Just for the Holidays kickoff.”

He smiles. “Good. That’s a great project. Though not relaxing.”

“And yet I love it, and I don’t use that word often,” I say.

The Little Friends director told me she’s invited local press and some schoolchildren too, as per usual. That’s fine. I don’t mind chatting with kids so much. I plan to give a short talk about how adoption is a year-round commitment, for many, many years. Pets aren’t just a gift under the tree.

I head toward the entry room to the rescue, turning the corner—and what the hell? It was barren when I walked past it a couple hours ago, with only a Charlie Brown–style tiny tree on the reception counter.

Colorful lights now twinkle along the doorway, a fluffy, proud tree stands in the corner, and garlands strewn with red berries and pine cones line the counters. And in the middle of this Christmas explosion, a gorgeous woman hangs a wreath. Her chestnut hair falls in shiny waves over her shoulders, and her mismatched eyes are lasered on lining up the decoration over the door.

Eloise has arrived.

Un-fucking-expectedly.

I try to ask What the hell are you doing here?

But the words are stuck in my throat when she stretches an arm to reach the top of the door. Her tight white sweater rises up, revealing an inch or more of pale flesh.

My mouth goes dry at the peek of her back. The slice of flesh that looks kissable, touchable. Especially since there’s a paw print tattoo on the right side of her, just above the waistline of her jeans, inked in a delicate black line.

I have so many questions.

And still, all I can do is stare as she grunts out a triumphant, “Got it.”

I blink off the haze of lust and surprise. “What the hell is all this?” I ask, gravel still in my throat.

She spins around, ignoring my irritation, smiling brightly. Of course.

“It’s for the event,” she says, dusting one hand against the other, then grabbing a canvas bag from the floor and shouldering it.

I furrow my brow. What is she talking about? She just rappelled into my life with this pop-in. It was one thing when she appeared at the wooden fence at Silver Bells Sleigh Rides. It’s entirely another for her to show up from a couple states away.

“But what are you doing here?” I ask as the sound of sneakers slapping against the tiled floor grows louder. “I didn’t invite you.”

“There you are, Dr. Lennox!” It’s Sailor, the receptionist, with her dyed blue hair and nose ring. “I was looking for you to let you know your publicist was here!”