Page 34 of Mistletoe All the Way

Her right eyebrow arches. “You named one of your horses after the Grinch’s dog?”

I scoff. “No.”

The brow shoots to the stratosphere. “You did.”

“Nope.” I cross my arms.

“Keep telling that to yourself, Grinch.”

“The name just suits him. He’s a good, sturdy, reliable horse.”

“Okaaaay.”

“He is,” I insist.

“And he’s named after the Grinch’s dog.”

“Eloise,” I warn. “I also have a horse named Agatha.”

“After Agatha Christie. So they’re literary horses. Named for a Seuss dog and the queen of mysteries.”

I stifle a laugh. She might be right on Agatha. But Max is just a good name. “They’re good names for horses.”

“How long have you had them?”

“About five years. Since Max was ten and Agatha was about twelve. They’re rescue horses,” I add. “They were abandoned, but they’re trail horses now.”

Warmth flickers in her eyes, an understanding that horses need rescuing sometimes too. “And do you ride them?”

“Occasionally, and so do some of the people who work at Little Friends and at the vet clinic also like to ride.”

She smiles. “That’s generous of you.”

“And that’s not going on social media,” I say sternly.

She gives a crisp nod. Standing, she nods to the door. “I’d better go get the decorations.”

Before I can even offer to help, she’s off—practically running to the car.

Rusty whines as she leaves.

I give him a look. “Have a little self-respect, will ya?”

He doesn’t even glance my way. Just stares hopefully at the door.

Seconds later, Eloise swings the door back open and slips inside, with a big red canvas bag on each shoulder. She sets them down in the foyer, shivering. “So cold.”

“Do you need a sweatshirt?” I ask as she takes off her coat, and I reach for it to hang it up. She’s wearing that white sweater from earlier.

“Actually, that sounds nice,” she says. “My bones are frozen. I swear it’s colder here than at home.”

“It probably is.” I gesture to the living room just past the foyer. “There’s a fire going. Warm yourself up. I’ll be right back.”

I head down the hall to my bedroom and grab a green hoodie from the closet. I return to the living room, where she’s sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the fireplace, worshipping the flames, my traitorous dog by her side. For some reason, a smile tugs at the corner of my lips. But I smother it as I hand her the sweatshirt.

“Ooh, it’s festive! Green and all,” she says.

“It’s not festive. It’s from my alma mater.”