The Trouble with Mistletoe

“Dude.” This from Mason, his right-hand guy, who stood in the doorway. “We need to get the guys in here this week to help work on the loft since you and your little height phobia can’t—Are you listening to me?”

“Sure,” Keane said to the window. He could see the Pacific Pier Building and pictured Willa in her shop wearing one of her smartass aprons, running her world with matching smartass charm.

Someone snorted. Sass. His admin had come in too, and no one cut through bullshit faster than Sass.

“He’s not listening to me,” Mason complained.

“Not a single word,” Sass agreed.

Keane’s phone beeped his alarm. “Gotta go,” he said. “I’ve got ten minutes to pick up Pita before South Bark closes.”

“I could go get her for you,” Sass offered. “What?” she asked when Mason’s mouth fell open. “I offer to do nice stuff all the time.”

“You offer to do nice stuff never,” Mason said.

“All the time.”

“Yeah? Name one,” Mason challenged.

“Well, I wanted to smack you upside the back of your head all day,” she said. “And I resisted. See? I think that was exceptionally nice.”

Keane left while they were still arguing. It would take him less than five minutes to walk to South Bark but Pita wouldn’t appreciate the chilly walk back, so he drove. Parking was the usual joke, so that by the time he got a spot twenty minutes had gone by.

He walked through the courtyard, taking a moment to admire the gorgeous architecture of the old place, the corbeled brick and exposed iron trusses, the large picture windows, the cobblestone beneath his feet, and the huge fountain centerpiece where idiots the city over came to toss a coin and wish for love.

All of it had been decorated for the holidays with garlands of evergreen entwined with twinkling white lights in every doorway and window frame, not to mention a huge-ass Christmas tree near the street entrance.

But that wasn’t what stopped him. No, that honor went to the wedding prep going on. Or at least he assumed it was a wedding by the sheer volume of white flowers and lights, the ivory pillar candles set up in clusters paired with clove-dotted oranges and sprigs of holly running along the edge of half of a very crooked archway—

He stopped short as it fell over.

“Crap!”

The woman who yelled this had strawberry blonde hair, emphasis on strawberry.

Willa squatted low over the fallen pieces of the archway trying to . . . God knew what.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” she was muttering while shaking the hell out of the screw gun in her hand. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“It’s not the screw gun,” he said, coming up behind her. “It’s operator error.”

She jerked in response and, still squatting, lost her balance and fell to her butt. Craning her neck, she glared up at him. “What are you doing creeping up on me like that?”

He reached a hand down to her and pulled her to her feet. And then grinned because she was wearing another smartass apron that read OCD . . . Obsessive Christmas Disorder.

With a low laugh for the utter truth of that statement, he took the screw gun from her.

“It’s broken,” she said.

He inspected it and shook his head. “No, you’re just out of nails.” He crouched, reaching for more from the box near her feet to reload the screw gun.

Since she was still just staring at him, he turned his attention to what she’d been doing. “You realize that this archway is only going to be three feet high, right?”

“That’s perfect.”

“In what universe is that perfect?” he asked.

“In the dog universe. It’s a dog wedding.”

That had him freezing for a beat before he felt a smile split his face.

She blinked. “Huh.”

“What?” Did he have chocolate on his teeth from the candy bar he’d inhaled on the way over here, the only food he’d managed in the past four hours?

“You smiled,” she said, almost an accusation.

“You’ve seen me smile.”

“Not really, not since—” She cut herself off and took the gun from him. “Never mind. And thanks.”

“There’s really going to be a dog wedding? Here, in the courtyard?” he asked.

“In less than an hour unless I screw it all up. I’m the wedding planner.” She paused as if waiting for something, some reaction from him, but he managed to keep his expression even.

“You’re not going to laugh?” she asked. “Because you look like the kind of guy who would laugh at the idea of two dogs getting married.”

“Listen,” he said completely honestly. “I’m the guy who needed a fur-sitter because he was terrorized by a ten-pound cat, so I’m not throwing stones here. Speaking of which, where is the little holy terror?”

“She’s in my shop safe and sound with plenty of food and water, napping in the warmest spot in the place—between Macaroni and Luna.”

He must have looked blank because she said, “The two other pets I’m babysitting today. Well technically Cara, one of my employees, is doing the babysitting at the moment.”

“I hope you aren’t attached to those other pets,” he said. “Because Pita will tear them up one side and down the other.”

Willa merely laughed and pulled her phone from one of her apron pockets, a few dog treats cascading out as well, hitting the cobblestone beneath their feet.

With an exclamation, she squatted down to scoop them up at the same time that Keane did, cracking the bottom of his chin on top of her head.

This time they both fell to their butts.

“Ow!” she said, holding her head. “And I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

He blinked past the stars in his vision. “Lived through worse,” he assured her, and reached out to gently rub the top of her head. Her hair was soft and silky and smelled amazing. “You?”

“Oh, my noggin’s hard as stone, just ask anyone who knows me,” she quipped.

Their gazes met and held and he realized that their legs were entangled and was struck by the close proximity and the unbidden and primal urge he had to pull her into his lap.

Clearly not on the same page, she picked up her phone and went back to thumbing through her pics. “Ha,” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Here.” She leaned in to show him her phone’s screen, her arm bumping into his. When he bent closer, her hair brushed against his jaw, a strand of it sticking stubbornly to his stubble.