Page 38 of Mistletoe All the Way
He shakes his head, like, Nice try. “You invited yourself. I made you dinner. I’m gonna decorate that tree if it kills me.”
I smile, relieved I haven’t pushed him too far. “Well, that’s the Christmas spirit, isn’t it?”
“I’m a competitive man. I’m going to show you just how much goddamn spirit I can have.”
“Don’t you know just the way to a jolly’s heart,” I say.
“Is it through your stomach?”
I take another bite, chew, and moan again. “It might be. I don’t know a lot of guys who are vegetarians. I was a little excited to learn you were.”
“I take care of animals for a living. It seems like the way I ought to eat.”
“And you rescue them too.” I pause, needing to say the next thing just so. “I had the impression today that you’re much more comfortable with animals than people.”
“Kind of goes with the territory of being a DVM.”
“Right. But there’s more to it, isn’t there?” I don’t want to push too hard or say something like Are you shy? or You hate public speaking, so I try a gentler approach. “You’d rather be in the company of animals than people because it’s… easier?”
He seems to think for a moment, his gaze drifting to Rusty, curled up by the fireplace—visions of dog bones dancing in his head, I suspect. “Easier, but also I find their company more reliable and truer than people’s. Especially at this time of year when they become part of the commercialism. Props, basically. That’s one of my issues with Stephen. A few years ago, he bought a dog from a puppy mill for his girlfriend for the holidays and then was ready to discard the dog a couple months later when she lost interest in the little doxie. My brother and I stepped in and helped the pup find a great home.”
I seethe. “I loathe him even more.”
“Speaking of the devil, tell me about this meeting you saw him taking,” he says, returning to my hot tip. “You’ve been holding out.”
I sit up a little straighter, ready to dish as I set down my utensils. “The other evening on the way home from the library, when I was dressed as an elf—”
He seems to smother a laugh while pushing his plate to the side. “Go on.”
“There was a stream of people going into his bar.”
Noah growls, irritated.
“The usual tourists and such. But I saw two guys in suits, so I kind of surreptitiously followed them in.”
“Like a cat burglar?”
“Why, yes. And they went up to the bar, straight to Stephen. Then he called out, ‘Free beer with the purchase of wings!’ A ton of patrons came up to the bar, all excited, of course, because they wanted a free drink.”
“Of course. The town loves him,” he says in begrudging admiration.
“I don’t eat wings, so I don’t. But anyway, everyone thanked Stephen, and he smiled and then went to his office with the guys in suits.”
He furrows his brow. “Okay. And that means?”
Isn’t it obvious? “Well, I presume they’re lawyers, and I have two theories about why he’s meeting with them.”
His lips quirk up. “Just two?”
“Just because I don’t listen to crime dramas doesn’t mean I don’t have a murder mystery mind.”
He rubs his palms together. “Now he’s a murderer? This is getting good.”
I give him a look. “Option one: The lawyers are there to help him sell the bar someday. Think about it—if he ran into trouble in the past, he might want to sell it and, hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. But that doesn’t really impact us.”
He fights off a laugh. “What does impact us?”
“The second option,” I say, then pause to really let my theory hit. “He’s meeting with them about the possibility of the farm inheritance. That would mean he’s so sure he’s the front-runner, so positive he has it in the bag, that he’s already laying the groundwork. He’s probably talking to lawyers to get the paperwork going.”
