Page 51 of Mistletoe All the Way

But I don’t want to lie either. “I thought it would help him with the contest to have a higher profile. He wants people to see that he does care about the town, even if he’s not here all the time. And I love it here and want to do PR for Evergreen Falls, so showing the mayor what I can pull off with, well, a transformation has to help my case.”

There. That’s true. Every word.

Hank nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “Seems to be working so far,” he says, then parks his hands on his hips, surveying the barn, maybe looking for anything that needs to be done at the end of the day.

“I’d love to see all of Silver Bells. Would you give me a tour?”

Hank gestures to the barn. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

He moves through the barn, feeding the other horses—Ruby, Pepper, and Calliope—telling me about each one, how long he’s had them, what each one likes for a snack. Rusty follows us as we go, sniffing their stall doors and every bale of hay he can find, but keeping a respectful distance from the big animals. Soon, the sound of a horse’s hooves clomping through the snow grows louder, and a red speck turns bigger.

Noah returns, Honey coming to a stop with a loud neigh.

“That was fantastic,” Isla says to me as she pops up from the seat, then adds, “you two should take one sometime.”

She looks at Noah, then me, flashing a knowing smile.

My cheeks flush. “Oh, we’re not—”

“Yeah, that’s not—” Noah jumps in.

Rowan laughs. “Good luck, man.”

As they leave, Hank looks to us with a twinkle in his eyes as Noah tends to the sleigh. “Something up?”

My cheeks flame hotter as I say, “Nothing.” Because nothing can be up. We have a contest, and a goal, and a mission. There’s no time for a distraction, even though my skittering pulse disagrees. “We should head to the kickoff event.” I turn to Noah and say, “And we need Rusty. You’re better with animals by your side.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Noah says, and I knew he would. But I’m not sure he’ll like what’s coming next.

After he rounds up Rusty, I hustle over to my truck, grab a canvas bag from the front seat, and give it to Noah. “For today, please.”

He gives me a curious look. “For me?”

“Yes. For you. I thought it would be perfect for you when I spotted it at the Christmas market. I’m sure your grandfather would agree.”

“I agree,” Hank chimes in before Noah even dips a hand into the bag.

“Do you know what it is?”

“Nope,” Hank says, then points his thumb my way. “But I like her, so I know I agree.”

I preen.

Noah pulls out a red sweater with an illustration of a tough-looking Santa, and the words Yeah, I Know What You Did Last Year, All Right on it.

“Nope,” Noah says. A line in the sand.

“Yes,” Hank and I say together.

“No way.”

“Yes way,” we say in unison.

Noah glares. Huffs. Puffs too.

But when we leave, Noah’s driving his truck and wearing the sweater I got him. Sure, he’s snarling a little. But sometimes you have to take a bit of snarl when you tango with a grump.

We park just off Main Street, passing St. Nick’s Hangout on the way to the town square. Once we near the corner, the sound of shoes clomping grows louder and closer, then a voice booms, “Hey, Gramps! How the hell are you?”