Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
I give her back a stiff pat. “Of course. Have a…nice night.”
“And a Merry Christmas,” Holly Jo enthuses, appearing by my side to wave them off. Once they’re out of earshot, she asks in a softer voice, “How you holding up, Grumpy?”
“I hate the sound of that toy.”
She grins up at me. “But you loved Barry. And that hug Brenda gave you. I could tell you were really enjoying that.”
Lips twitching at the edges, I shake my head. “You’re not just diabolical. You’re sadistic.”
Her jaw drops in mock offense. “What? I am not! I take no pleasure in the pain of others.” Leaning closer, she whispers, “But your safe word, should you need it, is Tickly Bear.”
“It is not,” I say, losing the battle against the corners of my mouth.
“There it is!” She beams as she points to my lips. “There’s a smile! Wow.” She bites her bottom lip in a way that makes me long to do the same, her smile fading as she adds, “Yeah. That’s nice. You look good in a smile, Luke Ratcliffe.”
And you look very kissable, Holly Jo Hadley, I think.
The thought is enough to make me take a step back and banish the ridiculous grin from my face.
I’m not here for that.
That is not on the table.
Even if Holly Jo were interested in kissing a man with Seasonal Grouch Disorder—which she surely is not—I don’t engage in casual connections at this point in my life. I don’t pursue a woman romantically unless there’s long-term potential, and there is rarely long-term potential.
It certainly isn’t present here.
Holly is a bright, happy, optimistic, merry-making fixture of Silver Bell Falls. I’m a jaded, calculating, emotionally stunted businessman who can’t get back to the city fast enough.
So, I simply clear my throat, avoiding eye contact as I ask, “How long until the next client?”
“About ten minutes,” she says, the teasing vanished from her tone. “While we wait, I’ll see if I can find a toy with a less abrasive squeak.”
“Thank you,” I say formally. “I would appreciate that.”
The next hour is a parade of indignities for both me and the poor animals.
The Persian I dress in an elf costume is clearly not any happier to be here than I am, but she heroically resists the urge to claw my eyes out. I thank her for her restraint as I fetch cat chews from a smaller container behind the dog treats, sending her on her way just as our next client appears.
We welcome a shy corgi, a bulldog with a drooly grin, and several mutts, before another cat arrives, this one a tabby who appears to be on drugs.
His pupils are eerily enormous and entirely haunted. As I slide his elf hat into place, it feels like he’s staring into my soul—and finding it lacking.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He lets out a long, low groan that seems to ask why he’s been cursed to suffer so.
“I know,” I agree. “It’s inhumane.”
He rests a paw on the back of my hand and groans again, a sound of such prolonged anguish, it makes me wince.
I’m about to suggest we refund his owner’s money and set the poor creature free when Holly sweeps him into her arms, whispering against his furry head, “Don’t be afraid, Tam Tam. I’ve got you, buddy. Just like last year. I’ve got you, and you’re going to be so handsome, just wait and see.”
She soothes the traumatized Tam Tam the way she’s soothed every animal before him, proving she’s more than an artist who excels at her craft. She’s some kind of pet-whisperer.
Or a witch.
I’m certainly falling under her spell.
No matter how hard I try to fight it…
“I saw you talking to Tam Tam while you were getting him dressed,” she says, once the cat and his owner have gone. “Good work. You kept him so much calmer than last year.”
I shake my head. “I did nothing. You’re the one with the magic.”
“It’s not magic,” she says. “It’s just love. And patience. Love and patience go a long way. Don’t you think?”
I’m about to confess that I honestly don’t know—I don’t think I’ve ever loved or “patienced” the way she does—when barking erupts nearby.
Holly and I turn to see a beagle straining on his leash not far from the gazebo, menacing a woman in a long purple coat with silver hair down to the middle of her back. She shifts away, lifting her mittened hands slowly in surrender. The beagle’s owner, a heavyset man with a beard, seems to be apologizing profusely, but it’s hard to hear over the frantic barking, and he’s clearly struggling to maintain his grip on the dog’s leash.
I’m about to head over to intervene when something small and brown leaps from the woman’s shoulder.
For a moment, my brain tries to convince me that her ear decided to detach itself from her body and flee into the snow.