Page 71 of Mistletoe All the Way

“Sold,” he says with a bright smile. One that’s rare for him. It serves as a reminder to me—this smile comes from his plans for the farm. That’s the point of all this. Not any bloom of feelings.

I rub my palms together and concentrate on our goals as we study Stephen’s building, the door still annoyingly closed. “All right. Who can sell the most goods at the Christmas market. You’ll be assigned one at random. It could be ornaments, jams, honey, stockings, pot holders, kitchen towels,” I say, then rattle off ten, twenty, thirty more options since it takes my mind off the ache in my heart.

That soon enough, he’ll be gone.

By the time I reach “chestnuts,” Noah snaps his gaze away from me. “Follow that car.” He points as a red, shiny convertible pulls out of the parking lot.

Screw feelings.

I’ve got a mission, should I choose to accept it.

Following someone is hard. You need to stay far enough behind that they can’t tell they’re being followed.

And close enough that you can actually tail them.

Tension rolls through my shoulders as I wrap my fingers around the wheel in a death grip.

“Maybe he’s going to the diner,” I say, casting about for possibilities as Stephen cruises ahead of us on his way toward town. “Maybe he’ll meet a buyer over coffee.”

“Maybe,” Noah says, a little breathless. Hopeful too, I suspect.

“He goes to Rudy’s most mornings,” I add, tapping the brakes as Stephen slows a block ahead. “Unless he met them already. Shoot. I should have told you about the pictures sooner. We might have missed our chance.”

Noah rubs my right shoulder. “It’s okay. You told me at the right time. But we’ll figure this out,” he says, his touch like the morning sun, warm and reassuring.

His faith in me is a far cry from what I’m used to from my parents. It spurs me on as I follow Stephen with focus.

Until he turns into the parking lot of St. Nick’s Hangout.

Defeated, I drive past it, shoulders slumping, heart sinking.

Dead end reached.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be. I’ve got to help Gramps at the farm in an hour. Let’s get a coffee. On me,” Noah says, and we take off our costumes and head into Rudy’s having come up short.

Plain coffee won’t do the trick for me now, like it did this morning. For my second visit to Rudy’s, I’ll clearly need to drown my sorrows in a cappuccino, thank you very much. Maybe I’ll even get some frothy stuff on the drink. I scan the chalkboard offerings. Do I want a peppermint mochaccino? I’ve never been one for froofy drinks, but if ever there was a time for froof, it’s today.

The people in line shuffle ahead, closer to the register, as I contemplate coffee and mission failure. I hate failing. I can hear my father’s voice, talking about my chosen career—this is all such nonsense.

Maybe my idea to spy was simply more of that nonsense. My gut twists as Bing Crosby croons on the sound system, harmonizing with the hiss of espresso machines. The place is packed—the balcony stuffed with kids playing Candy Land and Monopoly on old red vintage couches while hopped up on sugary hot cocoa. We inch closer, but I keep wondering—is froof all that’s left in this spy pursuit? Is sugary sorrow the end of the line? I want to help. I truly do.

I can’t just drown my frustration in whipped cream. Resolute, I turn to Noah and say, “I’m going to keep trying.”

“I never thought you were a quitter,” he says as the bell above the door jingles and a new pack of customers strolls in.

“You’ve been a little bit determined from the start,” he says, holding up a thumb and forefinger.

Pride suffuses me. I’m grateful he can see me, that he understands I stick things out to the bitter end. The only things I DNF are bad books and movies. “I started this. I need to finish it. It was my harebrained idea.” I shrug one shoulder and move as a woman carrying twice her body size in elf-decorated gift bags shuffles past. “I can’t help myself. I read all the Nancy Drew books in the library as a kid.”

“And Harriet the Spy?”

“And Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie,” I add.

Noah arches a brow. “And you give me a hard time for listening to audio dramas.”

“Hey, I like cozies,” I say.