Page 98 of Mistletoe All the Way
“It’s nothing,” Noah says, waving a hand.
It’s not nothing. It’s everything. The man just made up new song lyrics on the fly.
“You have to do that tomorrow night,” Henry insists.
“It was your idea,” Noah says.
“No, mine was ‘fucking.’ You made it better. Do it tomorrow.”
“You sure?” Noah asks, clearly careful not to tread on Henry’s toes.
“Kid, there’s enough pie for everyone.”
Grandma leans back, smirking. “Besides, I think my granddaughter wants to hear you sing it to her.”
My face flushes deep crimson. But she’s not wrong.
I’ve never seen the diner so packed before. But speaking of enough pie for everyone, this is great for Phillipa, who’s directing servers left and right with the efficiency of an air traffic controller. They scurry to the tables and the counter, delivering spiked hot cocoa and Christmas cocktails. It’s standing room only at the Candy Cane Diner, where it’s definitely got an after-dark vibe with low lighting and flickering silver and gold lights.
She’s even flung open the back doors, and the crowd is gathered on the porch under heat lamps to watch the nighttime event. There’s a small corner of the diner that’s always been reserved for a band. Sometimes it’s the Mistle Bros rocking out to Christmas tunes, and sometimes it’s Sam Silversmith, a karaoke star from Darling Springs a few hours away. Tonight that spot in the corner is reserved for the five men competing for Mr. Holiday.
I’m standing by the counter with the guy I’m trying to turn into a local celebrity, and I’m pretty sure it’s working. “You’re going to be great,” I tell Noah. “The photos of you yesterday at the tree decorating? I can barely keep up with the comments. When I arrived earlier, the place was already packed, and I overheard some of the attendees saying they’d heard about it through the Cowboy Vet. I swear you get more and more popular by the day. You’re going to get a big ego.”
“And we know you like big things,” he says in a low, smoky rasp. But then he turns around in the crowd and swallows roughly. A little uncomfortably.
I set a hand on his shoulder, gentle and reassuring. “I know you don’t love doing this. I know you’re better with animals. But just know—you’re not bad at this either.”
“You know what dogs and cats get when they do things that are hard for them?”
“What do they get?” I ask, knowing I’m walking straight into something.
“A treat.”
“Are you prearranging a treat? Like the time I dangled a fake-chicken sandwich in front of you?”
He gives a casual shrug. “Look, it worked. I’m just saying.”
“Fine. What do you want if you do this?” I ask, playful.
He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “Surprise me with something good.”
Heat skitters down my spine. Images flicker past me of “something good.” Translation: something naughty.
“I’ll work on that. Something that’ll fill you with the holiday spirit. Just like I know tonight will do.”
He rolls his eyes. “My god, woman, is there nothing you can’t inject with cheer?”
I pretend to consider this. “Nope.”
But I also know his reticence isn’t just something to joke about. It’s real. It’s part of him. I can’t fix his social anxiety or his shyness by being cheery, so I spread my hand across his chest, and say, just for him, “I want you to ignore everyone. Like a horse with blinders. When you’re up there, just sing to me.”
“Just sing to you?” he echoes, then his face fixes with determination. “I can do that.”
But before Noah gets a turn, Stephen is first. He strides to the corner of the diner next to the karaoke machine, takes the offered mic from the mayor, and flashes his signature smile that wins over tourists and locals alike. “Hey, everyone. Love seeing you all here tonight. So much that I’m going to sing everyone’s favorite Christmas song.”
The karaoke machine begins the familiar tune, and Stephen is bopping his hips and snapping his fingers, dressed in a cranberry-colored suit, practically doo-wopping. Then he starts singing about how you’d better watch out and you’d better not cry.
I look to Noah, arching a brow. “He hasn’t changed a single word.”
