Page 13 of Mistletoe All the Way

“Hey, Phillipa. I’m trying to convince our favorite veterinarian to do some new fun stuff with his social. Can you grab him an order of your fake-chicken sandwich and waffle fries? That’ll help convince you, right, Chris?”

Holy fuck.

Eloise has leaned all the way into the twin game.

I flash my most friendly smile, laying on the charm as I say, “Thanks so much, Phillipa. And that does sound very convincing.”

I keep it light and simple. Very Chris.

“Coming right up,” Phillipa says, then pats my shoulder. “Good to see you here again. And I’ll be bringing Trash Panda by next week for his arthritis shot.”

Oh, score. This is getting even better. “I’ll have the chicken jerky ready,” I say, rolling the dice. Her pet sounds like a dog with that name, and they usually gobble up jerky.

Her eyes pop. “He’ll be so excited. Let me go put your order in.”

When I return my gaze to Eloise, she’s holding up her phone, snapping a photo, then saying, “What’s your number? I’ll send it to you to share with your brother.”

Impressive. She remembered I took the pic at Barney’s to show Chris. Still, I smirk. “Sweetheart, if you wanted my number, all you had to do was ask.”

She stares at me, her expression blank, seeming thoroughly unamused. “Dream on.”

“I will. I definitely will,” I say, having some goddamn fun with her.

She wiggles her fingers, making a gimme motion. “What are your digits, Doc? I know you want to beat your brother.”

Fine. I do, so I give her my number. “What’s the catch?”

“You getting everything you want—a win in your game, a faster lunch.”

“Next you’ll tell me you can get my gramps’s farm for me.”

Her lips twitch. Her eyes brighten. She’s the cat who ate the tastiest canary. “Silver Bells Sleigh Rides?”

“Yes.”

“I love that place,” she says.

Called it. Knew that was her speed. I want to say Not surprised, but sarcasm won’t help me win it from Stephen. “It’s a nice property,” I say.

“Sure is. And as a matter of fact, I bet I can help you get it.”

I scoff. “Come on.”

“No, seriously. Let me guess—your grandfather is retiring and he’s giving the farm to your oily cousin.”

Holy shit. I arch a brow. “How did you know?”

“That your grandfather’s retiring or your cousin’s oily?”

“Both.”

“As for the farm, your grandfather mentioned it when I ran into him at the Christmas market last week. We were both shopping for an ugly sweater,” she says.

That’s so very Gramps. Which is also the problem. Gramps and Stephen are lockstep in their love for Christmas, from running seasonal businesses in this small town, right down to liking the same attire. Heck, I bet they trade Christmas sweater tips along with business ones.

“As for Stephen, he just rubs me the wrong way, since he brags about his bar and the farm all the time. Talks about the farm like it’s already his. Ironic, since he ran into a rough patch a few years ago with St. Nick’s Hangout.”

I sit up straighter, all ears. “He did?”