Page 113 of Mistletoe All the Way

She’s probably right.

After Eloise sets down her mug, we slink back out into the nighttime throng. I keep my eyes peeled for Chad, but I can’t find him. Stephen’s swaggering his way to the exit too. Maybe to meet with Chad. But the sheriff comes up to Stephen and sticks out a hand to shake.

We’re ten feet behind, listening closely as we peruse homemade knitted stockings at a booth.

“Admit it. It was Photoshop,” the sheriff says, pumping Stephen’s hand as Andy Williams croons about it looking a lot like Christmas.

“I swear it’s not Photoshop,” Stephen jokes, letting go of the sheriff’s hand.

The sheriff arches a skeptical brow. “AI then?”

Stephen laughs, clapping him on the back. “That was all me, I swear.”

“Liar,” Eloise seethes to me.

No doubt the photo was a fabrication, but it doesn’t matter in the scheme of things. I need to win this on my own terms. I need to win it with hard work and determination. Sure, all the evidence is pointing to Stephen doing something shady—the photos in the barn, nosing around city hall, lying about how his business runs. But in the absence of hard evidence there’s not a thing I can do except do my best.

When the sheriff takes off and Stephen resumes his pace, we stay several feet behind, checking out various goodies.

Out of nowhere Stephen spins around, his eyes scanning the crowd sharply. “Noah, are you—”

I grab Eloise’s arm, tug her against the nearest stall, and kiss the breath out of her before he can finish the sentence. My back is to my cousin, Eloise’s lips are pressed to mine, and “The Christmas Song” floats past my ears as I kiss her as a distraction.

A very welcome one.

She loops her arms around my neck, murmurs softly against my lips. Seems to melt into me.

Chestnuts are definitely roasting on my open fire.

When I peek out of the corner of one eye, he’s gone. Out of my sight, and far, far away. And I hardly care why we were following him. I kiss Eloise for another delicious mind-bending minute, then I finally break it.

When I do, I open my eyes and smell… fruitcake.

I laugh, resting my forehead against hers. “We’re at the fruitcake stand.”

A stocky, ruddy-faced man with red hair, wearing a football jersey that says Team Santa, leans over the counter, craning his neck our way. “Well, if it isn’t the fruitcake salesman of the year.”

“Me?”

He points a stubby finger at my chest. “Yes! You sold more than I ever sell,” he says with a genuine smile, seeming like the kind of guy you could get a beer with. He checks the time on his phone. “Any chance you can re-create that magic and close up for me tonight while I go home and wrap presents with my wife for our little girl? If you sell like you did the other night, we can split the profits.”

I laugh, but then it fades quickly. Maybe this is what I’m supposed to be doing tonight. Helping a guy out. Like we helped out some pets. I could lend a hand instead of tailing my cousin. I’ll figure out what he’s up to tomorrow.

“No need to split the profits. I’ll help anyway,” I say.

He beams. “You can keep the fruitcakes you don’t sell!”

And a few minutes later, I can’t believe I’m selling fruitcakes again, and I don’t even have any apricot brandy to spike them with.

But one look at Eloise jammed into the small booth next to me, her mittens off, her cheeks rosy, her smile for the crowd, saying, “Get your fruitcakes here,” and maybe I can believe it.

This woman has pushed me way out of my comfort zone. So far, in fact, that this time I don’t mock the Christmas dessert. I do my best to—gulp—spread a little holiday cheer.

With the lights twinkling around the wooden awning, I bark out sales pitches to the passersby here in the market.

“Fruitcake lovers, come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Don’t be shy this holiday season. If you’re a fruitcake fanatic, we’ve got your back.”