“Here’s a little secret, woman to woman.” I lean closer, making sure I have her undivided attention. “It’s the small things that make a difference. A good mani/pedi, maybe sprucing up your hair a bit? The boys are going to notice.”

The lady in question shoots me a dubious look but says nothing.

That’s probably because I’m the last person who should give dating advice.

Also, because she’s a reindeer.

“Come on,” I coax, lifting Tammy’s back hoof. “Just let me trim the edge, and you’ll be all set. I promise I won’t nip the quick this time.”

Tammy responds by trying to lie down in the chute, which is the opposite of helpful. “You were a lot more cooperative when you were in heat.”

A familiar laugh rings through the barn, and I turn to see my sister skipping into the pen wearing a red and green Christmas sweater. I swear Amber owns at least sixty of them, and they’re on constant rotation this time of year.

“If by ‘cooperative’ you mean ‘trying to hump everything in sight,’ you’re spot-on,” she says. “Didn’t she put the moves on the feed trough last time she was in heat?”

“You can’t judge a girl when she’s desperate.”

“True enough,” Amber says, reaching out to scratch Tammy behind her right ear. “I thought you didn’t trim hooves unless their antlers are in the soft stage.”

“I don’t, but she had a cracked hoof, and I can’t get the farrier out until next Saturday. Come on, help me hold her.”

Amber moves to the front of the chute to coo in Tammy’s ear. “Don’t worry, girl,” she murmurs. “We’re going with artificial insemination next time. No more awkward humping from Harold.”

“We should probably start calling them by their stage names now that it’s November,” I point out as I snip the edge of Tammy’s—make that Dasher’s—hoof. “And dial back the sex talk. Our first kiddie field trip shows up in an hour. They don’t need to hear about humping.”

“Actually, I think humping is the first thing they’d want to hear about,” Amber points out as I turn Tammy’s hoof to get the other side. “That and pooping. You’ll make the kids’ week if you can work more bodily functions into your reindeer presentations.”

I sigh and snip again. “Maybe not the image we want to put out there for Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch. Please tell me you’ve channeled that marketing degree into something more helpful.”

My sister beams and holds Tammy’s head a little tighter as the reindeer struggles to halt the pedicure. “That’s what I came to tell you, actually. Some fabulous news.”

“Oh yeah? You talked them out of hosting weddings at Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort?”

I deliver those last four words with my best socialite sneer, which would be a more convincing impersonation if I weren’t dressed in muddy flannel and knee-high rubber boots. My sister shakes her head.

“Not yet. I have a meeting next week with their marketing person. Maybe I’ll convince them to ditch that plan.”

“Try undoing a couple buttons on your top.”

“She’s a woman, so no.”

“Don’t rule it out.” I set Tammy’s left hoof down gently, then reach for the right. She gives a little kick, but my grip is firm, and she eventually settles in. I start snipping again, working my way carefully around the edges. “So what did you come to tell me?”

“The best news,” Amber says. “Awesome news!” She pauses for dramatic effect, and I glance up to see her cheeks are rosy with excitement. “I hired Santa.”

She bounces on her heels, her holiday cheer more contagious than mumps. I catch myself starting to smile. “From the way you’re acting, you either hired Brad Pitt or you made out with him in the tack room,” I observe. “Maybe both.”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes at me as I set down Tammy’s hoof and give her a gentle pat on the rump. Amber lets go of the reindeer’s neck and plants a kiss on her cheek, expertly dodging Tammy’s massive, branchlike antlers.

Amber pulls the lever to release the chute. “You’re free!” she sings as Tammy gallops into the pasture, bounding like a kitten mainlining catnip. “That’s pretty much how I felt breaking up with Zak last week,” my sister mutters as she turns back to me.

“You mean this time?” My sister and her boyfriend split up more often than most people change socks, but I have to admit it seems to be sticking.

“I’m serious this time,” she says. “I’m focusing three-hundred percent on the reindeer ranch. No more men for me right now, even if he did look like Clooney.”

I can relate, though not for the same reasons. Let’s just say I didn’t have the best early experiences with the opposite sex. Besides, getting Jingle Bell Ranch up and running is my number one priority, so I sure as hell don’t have time for dating.

Amber’s distracted watching Sydney and Edward—stage names Prancer and Cupid—try to rub velvet off each other’s antlers, so I nudge her with my elbow. “So what’s the deal with Santa?” I ask. “Did you land that old guy from the bank with the big white beard and the weird halitosis?”

“Ew, and no.” She makes a face. “Even with a box of Tic Tacs, that guy was like a fire-breathing dragon.”

“Dragon Santa.” I shake my head and shove the snippers into the pocket of my Carharts. “Not the marketing hook we want.”

“Plus, he wanted twice what we’re willing to pay,” she says. “Told me the authentic beard was worth more than a fake one, and he should get the same sort of bonus strippers get for real boobs instead of fake ones.”

“That’s a thing?”

Amber shrugs. “How should I know? We didn’t cover stripper economics in my business classes.”

“That’s a shame. Might be a good fallback career.” Randy, one of this season’s reindeer calves, comes wandering up to sniff my pockets for apples, and I give him a scratch behind one stubby antler. “So who’s Santa? Don’t tell me you picked that other guy—the one with the résumé covered in little foil bells who said he’s trying to change his legal name to Saint Nick.”

“Ugh. His background check came back with three counts of indecent exposure and anyway, ew—no. Come on, Jade. Are you going to let me tell you, or are we going to play guessing games all day?”

“I was kind of enjoying the games,” I admit. “Fine. Who’s Santa?”

Amber smiles like a cat stealing licks from the butter dish and tosses her wavy auburn hair. “Brandon Brown.”

I laugh and rummage through my pocket for a baby-sized apple as Randy noses me again. “That’s funny, I went to school with a Brandon Brown. Remember how the football announcer yelled his name through the PA like he was proclaiming a God’s descent from Mt. Olympus? ‘Now taking the field, quarterback Brandon Brown. All hail!’”

The mental picture of Wonder Boy Brandon Brown strutting across a football field with a ball under one arm and a Santa hat on his head makes me laugh out loud.

It takes me a second to realize Amber isn’t laughing.

“Um, yes, actually,” she says, scuffing her boot through the dirt. “Same guy.”

I stop laughing. “You can’t be serious. He’s our age, not Santa material.”

Amber rolls her eyes at me. “He was a senior when you were a freshman and I was in grade school, but why the hell does that matter? Kids aren’t going to check his ID.”

“Santa’s old,” I point out, pretty sure I’m arguing the wrong point. There’s a damn good reason I don’t love the idea of inviting a former king of the jocks to my ranch, and it has nothing to do with Santa’s age.

“That’s what they make fake beards for,” Amber says. “And strap-on bellies. I already ordered one for him.”

I close my eyes and count to ten, but only make it to four. “Please tell me you read the product description instead of googling ‘Santa strap-on.’”

“Will you relax? Jeez, I learned my lesson with the leather harness that turned out not to be for reindeer.”

“Yeah, Blitzen’s still pissed about the ball gag,” I mutter. “Did you seriously hire the king of the asshole jocks to be Santa?”

“It’s been thirteen years since he graduated,” she points out. “I’m guessing he’s gotten over himself being in the Marines for more than a decade.”

I consider pointing out that I’m not entirely over the mean-spirited teasing hurled at me by the jocks and princesses in Brandon’s circle of friends. Five years younger than me, and blessedly spared the baby fat that clung to me through my teens, Amber was unaware of the torment I endured in my high school years. I’d just as soon keep it that way.

“Why Brandon Brown?” I ask. “Why not get someone who looks the part?”

“Oh, he looks the part, all right.” Amber grins. “He looks like a freakin’ Chippendale dancer.”

I stare at my sister, not sure whether to box her ears or whack her in the arm with a sock full of hot nickels. “How is this helpful? You think a bunch of people want to show up and gawk at Old Saint Nick, who, by the way, is some stupid-hot Marine who couldn’t look less Santa-like if he tried?”

The second the words leave my mouth, I realize that’s exactly what my sister thinks. And that she’s convinced it’s a good thing.

“Come on,” Amber says. “Who usually brings the kiddies to pet the reindeer and see Santa? The moms, right?”

“Right,” I say slowly.

“Rumors spread fast around here,” she points out. “Once word gets out that Santa looks like Chris Hemsworth, we’ll have every mommy in a sixty-mile radius lining up to sit on his lap.”

“You mean put their kids on his lap,” I grumble. “This is a family attraction, remember?”

“I know, I know.” She waves a dismissive hand like that’s a minor detail, which maybe it is according to her plan. “But you asked me to help put Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch on the map. To make us super-profitable in the winter months so we can keep these guys in apples and hay for the rest of the year, right?”

I nod, though I’m not sure how that request translates to having Brandon Brown here on my ranch. We’re making good progress toward our goal of running a successful business, and I sure as hell don’t need some Wonder Boy ex-jock turning us into a beefcake circus.

“I thought he was on active duty somewhere,” I say.

“He’s taking some sort of extended military family leave thing,” she says. “I don’t know the details, but he’ll be home for a couple months.”

I sigh, not sure which of my objections to raise next. “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I say. “But I don’t think Studmuffin Santa is the way to go.”

“Studmuffin Santa, huh?” The rumble of a male voice over my shoulder makes me spin around so fast I nearly twist an ankle.

But Brandon Brown is there to catch me, his musclebound arms looking like something he ripped off a life-sized G.I. Joe action figure.

I recognize him in an instant, even though I haven’t laid eyes on him for twelve years. He has the same tousled mop of sandy hair and eyes like melty puddles of pine-green crayon that had all the high school cheerleaders lining up to toss their panties at him.

I was never a cheerleader. I was president of the Future Farmers of America.

Only, right now, I’m not feeling very presidential. I’m feeling unhinged. I’m feeling flushed. I’m feeling Brandon Brown’s hands on my arms and liking it a lot more than I should.

“You must be the boss,” he says with a voice that prompts swooning from every female in a ten-foot radius, reindeer included. “I’m Brandon, but I guess you should call me Santa. Or was it Studmuffin Santa?”

His eyes are teasing, and his hands are massive around my biceps. I swallow hard and try to find my voice.

“Studmuffin Santa,” I repeat. “Welcome to Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch.”