Page 82 of Mistletoe All the Way

I’m bursting with excitement as I drive. And I try, I swear I try, not to get ahead of myself. But everything’s coming up Eloise tonight. From the news I just learned, to the flirty way Noah touched my wrist today, to how he held my gaze in the fruitcake stall like I mattered.

But I can’t get caught up in those swoony things like I’m caught up in the contest and the spying.

Must force myself to stay grounded. To remember he’s not planning on running the farm from here. He’ll return to Colorado. And the last thing I ever want to do again is a long-distance romance. While he’s here we’re simply helping each other with the contest. That’s all.

But as his partner, I can’t wait to tell him what I found out at the shop.

A few minutes later I slow on the winding, charming street framed by towering evergreens, their branches fluffed with snow. I turn off my truck, grab my purse, and head across the stone path and up the steps to Chris’s home, where Noah’s been staying. It’s a lovely white bungalow with green planters under the windows and a homemade wreath hanging on the door. I’m tempted to fly up the steps and bang. But there’s that little matter of possibly face planting. I grip the railing as I walk up since I’m wearing heels—well, I committed to the outfit—and I don’t want to trip.

When I reach the door, I bang on the knocker, and twin sets of barks erupt.

Seconds later, Noah swings open the door and—stupidly—my breath catches. I forget everything else momentarily as I take him in. I just spent the whole day with him, in close quarters no less, but he still looks damn good in his blue flannel shirt with the cuffs rolled up, his jeans, and a flush across his cheeks from… the fireplace. It’s roaring in the living room, and I’m instantly remembering the night by his fireplace back in his cabin.

My chest flips. The whole ruggedly handsome look is only enhanced by the canines. Two dogs flank him—Rusty and Chris’s dog, Millie, who I met the other night. They bark hellos.

“Hi,” I say. And it comes out feathery.

Noah says nothing. Just stares at me, like he’s forgotten how doors work. His gaze travels down my coat, over my legs, then back up, lingering.

Is something on my face? My hair? I lift a hand… Right. I’m still wearing my wig. My brown eyes. I’m still in the full costume: a camel coat, taupe heels, business skirt, and blouse.

Oh. Oh. He likes the look. Heat rushes up my neck. “I went undercover,” I say, gesturing to my clothes.

His eyes follow my hand.

“I see,” he says, his voice all gravel.

“That’s where I was. I went to the tack shop again. As Cassandra Cartwright.”

He grips the doorframe, thrown off, it seems. “Who’s that?”

“My alter ego. I told you I’d get to the bottom of things, and I did.”

His lips shift in a small, pleased grin. “You did?”

“I did,” I say, with a bob of my shoulder. “I was determined.”

“Seriously?” He sounds borderline enchanted. But like he’s not quite letting himself feel that way.

“That’s why I just took off from the market without saying goodbye. I didn’t tell you I was going there because I just needed to do it. Can I come in?”

He blinks. Drags a hand through his hair. “Yes, of course.”

I step inside, and he reaches past me to close the door. His scent—outdoorsy and clean—wraps around me.

The door closes with a loud thunk, and it’s just us, and the crackle of the fire, the soft pad of paws as the dogs retreat, and the faint notes from a song. It sounds like an old standard. Frank Sinatra. Bobby Darin. I’m not sure, but it’s too endearing for my heart.

What is happening? I came here to report back on the biggest Christmas news scoop ever, and I feel wobbly. It’s not just from the heels. Noah reaches for my coat, hangs it, and motions to the living room couch across from the fireplace. I kick off the shoes and head over, then sit down.

I’m so conscious of my hair and my eyes, but also his eyes. He can’t stop staring at me. Does he like me better as a brown-eyed blonde?

But none of that matters. I’m here for our partnership. I do my best to ignore this fluttering in my chest as I home in on my report. “I dressed up, pretended I was a fancy rich lady, and inquired about horses. I said I was looking for an older one, maybe seventeen hands, and ideally a workhorse, like a draft horse. All the details you gave me about Honey.”

His lips twitch at the corners. “You said all that?”

“Did I give too much away?”

“No. I’m just—” His eyes are glimmering, like he can’t quite believe what I’ve said or done. “You dressed up. In a costume. With different eyes and hair, all to get more intel?” He’s talking slowly, as if he’s making sure he understands exactly what went down.