Page 4 of Mistletoe All the Way

I wave a hand at the tire. “You think I’m going to drive all the way from Evergreen Falls to San Francisco and not know how to fend for myself? I know Krav Maga, how to fix a flat, patch a sweater, and even unclog a sink. What can you do?” I tap my boot on the snowy ground. “I’ll wait.”

“I can save your pet’s life,” he says, going toe-to-toe with me. “Dog. Cat. Hamster. Take your pick.”

Dammit. I walked right into that one, and I have no comeback. Dr. Dick casually leans against my truck and snaps a selfie with a thumbs-up. Who even is this guy and how the hell is Phillipa friends with him?

“What was that for?”

“My brother,” he says, fiddling with his phone still and not even looking up. “This has to be worth at least ten points for the twin game.” Finally, he puts his phone away, then tips his hat like some smug cowboy vet. “Trish’s Treads in Evergreen Falls should be open still. I just checked, so you can get a new tire put on if you need it, or have it permanently patched. The snow’s going to be falling for a while.”

Ugh. He’s irritating and helpful. But he doesn’t get to tell me what to do. I can work out when to fix the tire myself. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future. I’m actually very busy—on my way to an ornament-making class tonight, and not a flat tire, or even someone like you, can ruin it!”

He half turns, a smirk shifting his lips. “Of course you are. You’re a jolly.”

“Again, if the alternative is to be a grinch like you, I guess I am!”

“Your call,” he says with a smile before he slides into his truck and reaches back to pet his too-cute dog, who turns to look my way out the window.

I didn’t think this day could get any worse, but now I have a new enemy. Not the dog, of course.

But Mr. Anti-Christmas.

I march into the shop, trying to shrug off the scent of that encounter with some much-needed cinnamon honey sticks.

Who insults someone’s bumper stickers? And why did the hot and not-at-all-nice vet even offer to help in the first place? Just to give me a hard time? For his so-called twin game? I breathe fire as I turn down another aisle, hunting for my dream candy. I barely realize I’m stomping around like the Hulk and just as mad until warm, gravelly laughter reaches my ears from the front counter.

“Let me guess. Mr. All Bark and No Bite said something rude to you out there?”

I snap my gaze toward the man behind the counter. “Yes! Dr. Lennox, right?”

“One of them,” he says.

Right. There are two of them. “I’d almost forgotten Dr. Lennox had a twin brother till he mentioned some twin game,” I say, shaking my head in frustration. But I’m still puzzling out the encounter as I grab the sticks and walk—civilly—to the counter. “Just makes no sense. A guy like that who has an online show where everyone loves him. Why be such a cynic?”

Barney tips his head back and laughs, the kind that echoes across the store. Why do I feel like he’s laughing at me? He points a big, beefy arm to the door. “That wasn’t Chris. That was Noah. The other twin.”

My brow knits. “That was the nice vet’s surly identical twin brother? And he tricked me?”

Amusement flickers in Barney’s eyes. “It’s their thing. He tried it with me too. It works on some people, since Noah’s hardly around. He left town for college and only returns every now and then.”

I blow out a long, frustrated breath, feeling a little like a fool. Even though I’m pretty sure I never even met Noah before he left town years ago. “It worked on me.”

“Don’t worry. He doesn’t come to town that often, Eloise,” he says, then nods to the candy. “That’ll be three fifty.”

After I pay him, he furrows his brow, then taps the crossword puzzle book on the counter. “Any chance you know a three-letter word for a type of nail polish? Starts with D. Is it dye?”

“Dip,” I reply with a smile.

“Ah, that does it. Solving that was going to take a Christmas miracle.”

Ha. Some people appreciate the same things I do.

I leave, then return to my truck. What’s this—a note under the windshield? I pluck it out. It’s a little wet from the snowfall.

I unfold it and read in blocky letters.

I recommend Twisted Nights. All five episodes of the audio drama are riveting. You’re welcome.

I ball it up. He did get the last word in. Even got out of his truck to do so. “Are you kidding me? I’m not going to listen to a show about murder,” I mutter to no one, then hop into my truck and tune in to some holiday music just to spite him.