Page 37 of Mistletoe All the Way

“You can cook.”

“Isn’t that sort of a basic skill?”

I give him a stare. “Do you have any idea how many women just want a guy who has some basic skills?”

“You’re really not helping dissuade me from the whole idea that this is some sort of bachelor contest. Wait—this is secretly a dating reality show you’re putting me on, isn’t it? Shit, it is. I really should’ve looked up Mr. Holiday. I really should’ve.”

I hold up a hand. “I promise it’s truly only a Christmas competition. I’m just impressed that you can cook—and it was really nice of you to invite me over.”

“Correction: You invited yourself.”

“And then you insisted on cooking,” I point out.

He gives a small nod that clearly says, Touché.

But I’m curious about something he mentioned earlier. “You said your mother always taught you that if someone comes to your home, you should cook them a meal.”

“I did,” he says, nodding as if he’s inviting me to say more.

“You mentioned she taught you how to fluff branches too,” I add. I know enough from living in Evergreen Falls to know that she’s not around, but I’m unsure of all the details. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

He nods, a little somber, the firelight softening his dark eyes. “Yeah. It was a few days before Christmas—when I was sixteen.”

My heart squeezes, like a fist’s tightening around it. I set my fork down since it feels wrong to eat at this second. “I’m so sorry, Noah. That must’ve been hard.”

“It was. She was sick for a while. It was December twentieth,” he says quietly. The fire pops. His eyes flicker with long-ago memories, and something in my chest tugs hard.

“Do you miss her a lot around this time of year?”

“I’m used to it, I suppose. It was a while ago. But I’m not sure you ever stop missing—it just becomes your norm. Their absence.” He hesitates, then adds, “Especially now.”

My throat tightens. “I can only imagine.” I flash back to what he said earlier about his mom teaching him about setting up a tree, then connect some more of the dots. “Did she love the holidays?”

A soft smile tips his lips for a moment. “Yeah, she really did. She’d wanted to make it to Christmas that year.”

Tears prick the back of my eyes, but I hold them at bay, trying to focus on his emotions, not mine. “I’m sorry she didn’t. I wish she had.”

He sighs. “Yeah, me too.”

He picks up his fork and takes another bite.

I follow his lead, returning to the meal, thinking about all he’s shared. “Is your mom the reason you don’t love the holidays? Because of when you lost her?”

He blows out a breath, thoughtful. “It started with that. Definitely. But also, I don’t like the commercialism of Christmas. I don’t like how it takes the focus off other things that are more important.”

Shoot. Have I messed up? “I’m sorry for pushing Christmas on you—with the competition, the tree, everything,” I say, since it hits me he’s been carrying so much loss beneath that grumpy exterior, and the anniversary of a death is coming up for him—something that’s never easy.

He pauses before answering, like it’s important for him to reply honestly. “Gramps said Stephen and I need to make a case for who’s the right man to inherit the farm and keep the Christmas spirit alive for the next generation. He wants us each to make a presentation just before Christmas on why we want the farm. So it’s just the way it is.”

Still, I feel guilty for showing up and shoving so much tinsel and cheer in his face. Something else weighs on me too. That touch of shyness from the event earlier. The way he doesn’t seem to relish the limelight. It pains me to do this, but it’s the right thing. Give him an out. “Noah, if you’d rather not do the Mr. Holiday competition, I totally understand. It’s a lot of public events,” I say gently, rather than saying outright I can tell you don’t love attention.

He scoffs. “I’m not backing out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Where’s your holiday spirit, Eloise?”

I laugh, but still, I’m aware not everyone loves… well, company and the holidays. “Okay, but I can just finish decorating the tree myself and get one or two pictures. You don’t need to do anything more than that. I’ll be on my way,” I say, gesturing toward the door.