The puppy was the last straw.
Chloe Wilde’s bad luck streak kicked off a little over a week ago while performing with the Rockettes during the annual Thanksgiving Day parade. She’d taken a tumble and accidentally ruined the dance troupe’s legendary toy soldier routine on live television. Things had progressed from bad to worse ever since, and now, just twenty-four days before Christmas, she’d reached rock bottom.
“I don’t understand.” One of the sequined antlers on Chloe’s glittering derby hat drooped into her line of vision and she pushed it away, aiming her fiercest glower at the woman who’d just given her the bad news. Not that glowering while dressed as a high-kicking reindeer was an easy task. It wasn’t, but after everything Chloe had been through lately, she excelled at it. “I’ve been visiting this puppy every day for twelve days. I filled out an adoption application a week ago, and you yourself called me last night and told me I’d been approved.”
That phone call had been the first good thing that had happened to her in days. Weeks, if she was really being honest with herself. But that was okay, because starting today, she wouldn’t have to face the worst Christmas of her adult life by herself. She’d have a snuggly, adorable puppy by her side.
Or so she thought.
The man standing beside Chloe cleared his throat. “She called me yesterday afternoon and told me the same thing.”
“Just because she called you first doesn’t mean the puppy is yours.” Chloe took a time-out from her refusal to acknowledge the man’s presence to glare at him.
She wished he weren’t so handsome. Those piercing blue eyes were a little difficult to ignore, as was his perfect square jaw. His clothes were impeccable—very tailored, very Wall Street. And the dusting of snow on the shoulders of his dark wool coat made him seem ultramanly for some reason. Under normal circumstances, she’d have thought he looked like the kind of man who would turn up wielding a little blue box in a Tiffany’s Christmas advertisement.
But these weren’t normal circumstances, and he wasn’t holding a little blue box. He was holding a puppy. Her puppy.
“Actually, that’s exactly what it means. She called me first, and a verbal agreement was made wherein I would take possession of the puppy.” He arched a brow. “Therefore the puppy is mine.”
Who talked like that?
Chloe turned her back to him and refocused her attention on the animal shelter’s adoption counselor, who thus far hadn’t been much help. But Chloe wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Are you really going to let him take my puppy? Listen to him. He says he wants to adopt a pet, but he sounds like he’s talking about a business merger.”
The adoption counselor’s gaze swiveled back and forth between the two of them as if she were watching a snowball fight.
“She’s not your dog. I’m adopting her. I’ve got the papers right here.” Using his free hand, the man pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and placed it on the counter.
Chloe didn’t bother opening it. Instead, she pulled an identical packet of papers from her dance bag and slammed it on the counter next to his envelope.
“I’ve got papers, too.” She crossed her arms, causing the jingle bell cuffs on the long brown velvet sleeves of her costume to clang, echoing loudly in the tiled shelter lobby.
The man’s mouth twitched into a half grin, which, to Chloe’s dismay, made him even more attractive. “Nice outfit, by the way.”
She jammed her hands on her velvet-clad hips, ignoring the jingly commotion she made every time she moved. “I’ll have you know that this is an official Rockettes reindeer costume, steeped in Christmas tradition dating back to the 1930s. I’m basically a New York treasure. So laugh it up, puppy thief.”
He cut his gaze toward her, and his smile faded. “Once again, I’m not a puppy thief.”
“Says the man who refuses to let go of my puppy.” Chloe cast a longing glance at the tiny Yorkie mix. “You know who you are? You’re Cruella De Vil in pinstripes.”
“Pinstripes haven’t been in style in years,” he muttered.
“Note taken, Cruella.”
“You know what?” The adoption counselor finally chimed in. “I think I should probably go get the manager so she can help us figure out how to proceed.”
“Excellent. Thank you so much.” Chloe nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the twinkle lights on her antlers blinking.
Oops. She could have sworn she’d switched those off.
Her nemesis turned toward her. Chloe still didn’t quite trust herself to look at him without swooning, but she couldn’t keep pretending he was invisible when they were the only two people in the room.
His gaze flitted to her antlers. “Are you really a Rockette?”
“Yes.” She nodded. Jingle, jingle, jingle.
“That’s quite impressive.”
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat.
It wasn’t a lie. Not technically.
On paper, she was still a Rockette. She just wasn’t allowed to perform anymore. Much to her humiliation, she now had the lovely task of standing in Times Square in her reindeer costume two hours a day to hand out flyers to tourists to encourage them to go to the annual Rockettes Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
For the past four years, she’d been living her dream. She’d high-kicked her way through the last four Christmases—three shows a day for five weeks straight. Twice, she’d even traveled overseas with the Rockettes to perform in their USO tour. And now she’d been relegated to Times Square. She might as well put on an Elmo costume and a Santa hat and call it a day.
The worst part about being demoted wasn’t the humiliation, nor was it the drastically reduced paycheck. Although she was going to have to do something about the latter really soon.
More troubling than either her dwindling bank account or her shame at the 50,000-plus YouTube views of her Thanksgiving Day toy soldier mishap was the prospect of telling her family she was no longer dancing. The Wildes weren’t a scary bunch. Quite the opposite, actually. They were loving and supportive, especially Chloe’s mother, Emily, who’d started the Wilde School of Dance over forty years ago and still taught nearly every day.
As much as Chloe hated to admit it, she’d taken advantage of all that family devotion. She’d used her busy rehearsal schedule as an excuse to miss nearly all the weekly dinners at the Wilde brownstone for the past few years. Every Thanksgiving and every Christmas, she’d been too busy performing at the parade or at Radio City to be a part of the family holiday celebrations. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d set foot in the dance school.
Her brother and sister liked to joke about it, calling her the ghost of Christmas past, but her