Page 79 of Mistletoe All the Way

Hmm. That’s vague. But at least she’s okay. I try to shake off the disappointment. As I make my way out of the market, my phone buzzes with a text. My pulse skips with the stupid hope it’s from Eloise.

Instead, I find a note from Jamie. Just saw a photo of you on my feed, and you’re trying to look smoldering in a barn. Might need to just burn my phone.

I dictate a quick reply. Burn it now.

When I reach the exit, Stephen catches up to me, puffing out his chest. “Who’s overcompensating now?”

I roll my eyes at his misuse of the word. “You don’t really know how that word works, do you?”

“I know I’m winning. Want to know why?”

Oh, this ought to be good.

He gives the cheesiest smile. “Because people like me.”

And your free wings. And your free peppermint bark. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d tried to give away the wreaths. “Do they, Stephen? Or do they like the free stuff you give them?”

His eyes burn. “You can’t handle the fact that I like people. I give things to them because I care.”

I scoff-laugh. “Right. That’s it.”

He leans closer, getting in my face. “And you can’t just come to town and beat me on my turf. That’s not how winning works.”

He strides off to his red convertible, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth and a stark realization too as I slide into my truck by myself. I was eating up every little detail of Eloise tonight, savoring getting to know her more, and then desperately wanting to spend more time with her tonight.

But now I’m going home alone.

23 I SPEAK HORSE

Eloise

Third time’s a charm. That’s what I tell myself as I adjust my platinum-blond wig, slick on some ruby-red lipstick, and check my reflection in Phillipa’s car mirror one more time. We’re in the gravel parking lot of the tack shop. I drove past it late last night, scoping it out after dark as I finalized my plan. The plan is to use my people skills and, I hope, get more evidence.

“You look like a secret agent,” Phillipa says.

“I do?” I ask, pulse skittering. “I don’t want it to be too obvious.”

She smirks. “Babe, you’re wearing a blond wig, heels, and red lipstick.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“It was too fun,” she says, then grabs a tissue from her vintage purse. “Wipe it off.”

I swipe off the too-much lipstick, and she holds out some gloss. “Use this.”

I slick that on and hand it back to her.

“Much better. Nice and subtle now. You don’t look like a fifties film noir queen,” she says.

“Good.” I blow out a breath and peer at myself one more time. I ordered colored contacts and had them overnighted. “The brown eyes work though.”

“And I hate you because you’re hot with brown and green and blue eyes. Now go. I’ve always wanted to be a getaway woman.”

“I’m just gathering intel,” I say, mostly to keep my own expectations in check.

“Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night. I’m pretending this is a heist or something.”

It’s not a heist—but maybe it’s a heist of info. When Phillipa texted that she had the wig from last year’s Marilyn Monroe Halloween costume and could drive me, I raced out of the market without telling Noah. I didn’t want to lose my nerve. Which is why I only said I was alive and well when he texted. Now, with my nerve fully intact, I swing open the car door and head into the tack shop, ready to dig deeper into Operation Horse Sale.