Page 43 of Mistletoe All the Way

“You go first,” I say, since I’m dying to know.

“Do you want to watch a show?”

“Same. I was going to say that too.”

A show feels so date-y, so romantic. Especially since here she is, in my home, petting my dog, wearing my sweatshirt, having eaten the dinner I made for her. I’d better not get caught up in it. “You’re not going to make me watch a Christmas flick, are you?”

She pats my thigh for a few seconds, and I’m not sure if that’s meant to be friendly or flirty, but I know which one I want it to be. “You’ve handled today so well,” she says. “You’ve earned the right to choose. Even if it’s one of your serial killer crime dramas.”

“Payback for you not telling me about the Santa hat,” I say, but I wish she’d left her hand on my thigh.

“I knew you were going to make that hurt.”

“Will it hurt? To watch something that’s not dripping in holiday cheer and candy canes?”

“Yes,” she says with an over-the-top pout. “But I’m tough.”

“Of course you are.” I grab the remote, toggle over to Webflix on my phone, and turn on the TV screen above the fireplace to mirror my phone. I’m not really going to ask her to watch something gruesome, so I say, “How about a spy flick?”

“I can handle that,” she says, but when I click on the menu, I groan.

Of course the first one that comes up is a Christmas spy film.

“Now that’s what I call payback,” Eloise says with a very satisfied grin.

I heave a sigh, but the movie has good reviews, so I hit play. Five minutes into the flick where a nerdy special agent chases a thief wearing a Santa suit, Eloise’s eyelids flutter closed. Her head sinks onto my shoulder. Her soft and shiny brown hair fans out across my shirt.

As I watch, I can’t stop stealing glances at all those glossy chestnut strands.

Or sneaking an inhale here and there of her fresh orange scent. Her shampoo, I think.

It’s like one mystery is solved, but there are so many more to uncover. Who she is, what she likes, why she’s full of so much fire and sugar.

Thirty minutes later, she’s slumped down, sound asleep, head in my lap. The fire crackles low as the embers die out. Rusty rests his snout against Eloise’s calf, clearly settled in for a long winter night right where he wants to be.

I don’t move an inch.

I don’t want to disturb her.

But I also really, really like the feel of her on me.

Far too much.

Our hero has vanquished a fleet of nefarious Mafia Santas and their elfish henchmen and won the heart of his rival spy, and he’s kissing her on the streets of Manhattan on Christmas Eve as snow falls.

I just can’t escape the holiday no matter how hard I try.

Oh, you’re trying real hard, buddy. Just look around.

My cabin is a godforsaken gingerbread house now, from the tree and its winking lights to the wreath she hung on the door at some point.

A glance at the clock reminds me it’s a good time for a bathroom break for my dog. It’ll give me something else to focus on instead of the cozy feel of my home right now.

Carefully, millimeter by millimeter, I slip out from under Eloise, cradling her head so it doesn’t flop onto the cushion. Gently, I set her down on the couch, stand, then pat my thigh, getting Rusty’s attention. He gives me a look like I can’t be serious. But I nod to the back door, and he knows I mean business.

Sliding off the couch in slo-mo, Rusty makes a show of staring longingly at Eloise while reluctantly trudging toward me.

I shake my head. “Shameless. That’s your new name, buddy,” I whisper, then yank open the sliding glass door to the deck.