Page 8 of Mistletoe All the Way

Like he does right now.

Clearly touched by Stephen’s offer, Gramps turns to him. “I know it’s a lot, but I was hoping you might be interested. You’re all about Christmas too, and this farm needs someone who understands that. And someone who understands a seasonal business too. Not to mention, you’re a darn good marketer. That can’t hurt.”

Grams gives a knowing snort. “Lord knows these days, marketing the holiday season is everything. The phone, and the social, and the agony.”

You’re telling me, I want to say. But I keep that to myself as Stephen waves a hand and says, “I got you there. Marketing is in my blood.”

Hmm.

Is it just me thinking everyone’s a suspect thanks to my serial killer dramas, or is he selling himself a touch too hard?

“And everyone in town already knows and loves you—it’ll be perfect if you take the reins,” Gramps says with a wink at his own pun.

Stephen sets a hand on his heart. “I’ll give the horses carrots every night and tuck them into bed.”

Bullshit. He barely even knows the horses’ names, and there’re only four of those majestic creatures. Bet he doesn’t know how old they are, how friendly (or not) they are, or how to even feed them apples. Which means… he’s up to something. Those beady eyes are full of dirty plans. I just know it in my gut. My fists clench. My irritation rages. And the next words that fly from my mouth surprise even me: “I’d like the farm.”

Everyone’s gazes snap to me. Some in slo-mo, some immediately, but soon enough the whole family is gawking.

I can’t believe I made this decision impulsively, but I’m not just playing defense. I want to make a bid for the family horse farm and carry on Gramps’s legacy. Since it’s Mom’s legacy too. She managed this place. She put her heart and soul into it. This feels as right as anything ever has since adopting Rusty.

Gramps stares at me as if he barely knows me. “You would, kiddo?” It’s asked kindly but with some disbelief. Understandable, since I don’t have a jingle bell bone in my body. “I didn’t think you, well, cared for the holidays,” he adds.

I take it on the chin. It’s the truth, after all. And sure, Stephen might know the ins and outs of which day of Christmas piping pigeons or leaping lizards were given to his true love, but I know animals. “I have a couple of horses, for starters. And I’m a big fan of four-legged creatures, and that’s what you have on the farm.”

“But you have to market the four-legged animals, Noah. Year-round with all the farm activities and offerings, but especially at Christmas with the sleigh rides,” Stephen says, like he’s being helpful by adding that little tip about the challenges of a business that’s always open but peaks during the holidays. “And, let’s be honest, that’ll be tough since you’re unfortunately never here.” He offers an apologetic smile, as if he’s saddened by my absence.

“He has a fair point. Stephen lives in town and owns a business in town too, one that also does the bulk of its business during the season,” Stephen’s dad points out, stretching his arms across the back of the couch, a move that makes me notice his sweater for the first time. It’s covered in polar bears doing yoga in the snow and it says Be More Chill. He’s a laid-back yoga teacher, so that tracks, but man, I’m not helping myself when the two of them dress for the holidays and for contests and stuff, and I dress for—I glance down at my black-and-gray flannel—a funeral.

“You’re a couple of states away. Why do you suddenly want it?” Stephen’s dad asks with genuine curiosity.

But the answer comes surprisingly easily. “This place means a lot to me. It means a lot to the town.” To make my point, I add, “Honey was the horse I learned to ride on.”

“She’s a good one,” Gramps says with fondness for his lead horse, who’s getting up there in years.

“So are Ruby, Pepper, and Calliope,” I add. Ha, take that, Stephen. And since Stephen has no problem pointing out why he thinks he’s better than I am, I decide to play an ace, going for the heart. “And Mom taught me everything she knew about them when she was here. This place is full of her memories.”

Gramps gives a soft, sad smile. Grams squeezes his shoulder, then says, “Isn’t that the truth.”

A quiet descends on the living room for a beat. The only sound is the crackling of the fire.

“Memories are so important,” Stephen says at last, reading the room with a thoughtful sigh. “I certainly understand the responsibility of keeping them alive, and I’d be committed to doing so too.”

He really knows how to sell himself, I’ll give him that.

Gramps holds out his calloused hands like he’s weighing something, lifting one as he gestures to Stephen. “I wasn’t expecting there to be a bidding war. My grandson who loves all things Christmas.” He lifts the other as he motions to me. “And my grandson who loves all things that don’t speak.”

That’s a funny way to put it, but… fair.

Gramps then turns his focus to Chris, seated next to me. “Since I’ve got another grandson too, I’d better ask: Do you want to throw your hat in the ring? Make it a three-way contest? The more the merrier, as they say.”

My twin jerks his head back and forth. “It’s a nice farm, but I’ve got my hands full with my clinics and the show.”

“You’re famous. We know,” Stephen says with a playful—at least, I think it’s intended that way—laugh. Quickly, he turns his focus back to me. “But how are you going to run the farm if you’re not here, Noah? You can’t really bale hay from a couple states away.”

With an arched brow, I feign confusion. “You can’t?”

“Seriously. This is a hands-on business, just like my St. Nick’s Hangout is too. It has to be that way when you own a business in a small town.”