Page 3 of Mistletoe All the Way

But when a knight in shining flannel wants to flex his vet-fluencer muscles, who am I to deny him?

Besides, I just got a pity manicure after losing a freelance gig I desperately wanted to land, and I’m not in the mood to chip fresh polish. Already ruined my makeup earlier when I cried stupid tears after getting the news that I didn’t have enough experience to land the plum publicity contract I was going for.

And nothing cures rejection better than fresh new nails, loud music, and time with friends. But I can’t meet them at the recycled ornament-making (and wine-drinking) class we’re going to if I have to walk the rest of the way to Evergreen Falls, so it’s time to fix this truck.

Now Evergreen Falls’s most eligible veterinarian—jaw chiseled, beard trim, soulful brown eyes—kneels by my vehicle, pulling off the valve cap like it’s a medical procedure.

“I appreciate you doing this. Getting a flat tire after a three-and-a-half-hour drive back from San Francisco was not on my bingo card,” I say, making small talk as he connects the tire sealant hose to the tire. “Especially since I went down there for a meeting the day before Thanksgiving just so a potential client could let me down in person.”

“Who does that? Holds a meeting the day before Thanksgiving?” His voice is a little gruff but also deeper and raspier than I remember from his show. It’s funny how people can sound a bit different in person than online.

“Exactly! Honestly, they could’ve emailed me to tell me I didn’t get the job.”

“The whole reason I’m here could have been done online too,” he says.

That’s strange. I don’t know him well, but doesn’t he live in Evergreen Falls most of the year? I don’t dwell too much on it though, shifting my attitude to the positive. “But I’m ready to turn my day around. I just picked up a tree, and now it’s time for some candy. They have the best candy here—the cinnamon honey sticks will make you see stars and shout to the heavens.”

“I’m partial to the chocolate-covered orange slices myself.”

“Maybe I’ll try those too. Candy recs from a homegrown star,” I say, instantly imagining how great it would be if I could land the popular vet as my first big PR client. Does he need PR? I could ask Phillipa, since my bestie’s close with him, but then again, everyone needs PR. Working with him could shoot my brand-new agency into the stratosphere. I’m already imagining how we could spread good news about animals. Share uplifting stories.

“Candy makes the whole schtick go down easier though, so you’ve got the right idea.”

I tilt my head, making sure I heard right. “Schtick?” I’m hoping his idea of schtick is something I can spin into solid gold marketing. Schtick sells. People love schtick.

He nods to my bumper. “The whole Kitschmas thing.”

I tread carefully as I ask, “You don’t like Kitschmas… or Christmas?” I don’t trust people who don’t like holidays. There’s just no point in being that bah-humbuggy.

He snorts. “What’s to like besides debt and animals who get discarded like Christmas trees?”

Ouch. That makes my heart hurt a little. But I’d never do that to an animal, so I say, “For starters, time with friends. But also, decorations, music… I don’t know… joy? Have you ever heard of it?”

“Kitschmas is just an excuse for marketing.”

He stands, dusting one hand across the other. Just my luck—a jerk volunteered to help me. There go my PR fantasies.

“It’s commercialism wrapped in red and silver bows. Reality is better.”

And since he’ll never be a client, the nice-lady gloves come off. “This from the guy who recommends serial killer content for fun? But I’m the one needing a reality check?”

He adjusts his black cowboy hat. Of course it’s black. Of course he’s infuriatingly handsome. And I’m irritated with myself, since I’m wondering what his thick dark hair feels like. “Pretty sure I didn’t recommend one.”

“Oh, great. You’ve caught me on a technicality.”

“I’m just saying,” he says with a shrug and a cocky smile I want to wipe off.

“And what are you just saying?”

“I’m saying you’re clearly a jolly,” he says, and I roll my eyes at the term he’s using. “And that’s nice and all, but someday you’ll realize there’s no point.”

I plant my hands on my hips. “Better to be a grinch like you?”

“Ten out of ten, I recommend it.”

“I’m so glad I pretended I didn’t know how to fix a tire,” I snap.

His brow furrows. “Wait. You could’ve done it yourself?”