Chapter 4
Plan B
Dash
Two hours and forty minutes earlier
I can’t believe Lia is screwing me over like this.
She’ll get hers, though. I’ve been in the business long enough to know that, at some point, her sweet facade will slip, and she’ll need an image makeover of her own.
When karma catches up to her, I’ll take plenty of satisfaction in it.
But at the moment, Brody’s right. I’m screwed.
And whose fault is that? Lia didn’t moon the press. Lia didn’t get hammered on a morning show.
I should be pissed off at myself, not her. I’m the jackhole here.
The cold wind swirling down the collar of my leather coat does nothing to cool off my rising temper.
I pull my beanie down over my brow and storm away from the house toward the event barn, walking fast in an effort to burn off some of my anger.
I’m maybe forty yards from the barn when I hear the grunting.
Like a gym bro lifting four hundred pounds grunting.
A vet carrying a cow grunting. Big, manly, grunting.
Curious, I round the corner in search of the source. Based on the sound effects, the smart money is on a farmer facing down a black bear. So imagine my surprise when I spot a woman wrestling a flower pot out of the bed of a pickup truck.
To be fair, it’s an enormous planter. She can barely wrap her arms around it. But again, flowers. Not an apex predator or a pregnant cow. A gigantic riot of creamy white and deep red blooms.
“Son of a reindeer,” she mutters fiercely.
I snort, and she turns her head to the side to eye me over her shoulder.
“Oh, hi. Could you lend me a hand?”
I don’t know the last time someone asked me for a favor. I look at her for a few seconds, as she bobbles the planter. She lowers her chin and stares at me, like she can’t believe I’m just standing there watching her struggle.
I snap out of it and jog toward her. “Sure, here.”
I ease the heavy pot out of her hands and she immediately grabs another, slightly smaller urn from the truck bed.
“Thanks. This way.”
She heads into the without another glance at me. It occurs to me that she has no idea who I am. This fact is oddly exciting. For at least a few minutes, I don’t have to be The Dash Pine. I can just be me. I trail her inside and catch my breath.
When Brody suggested this place for the big reveal of my fake romance, I had some doubts.
More like, I thought he’d mixed up his gummies with the candy ones again.
But I have to hand it to Quinn, the barn hits all the right notes.
Globe lights drip from the rafters and fresh greenery curls around the supports.
And there are flowers everywhere. I mean, everywhere.
I recognize roses, but that’s about it. I don’t know what the rest of these are but it’s like something out of a storybook.
“Wow.”
I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until the woman sets down the planter in her hand and turns to grin at me. “Right?”
Before I can respond, her green eyes go huge and her cheeks, already pink from the cold, turn bright red.
She gapes at me, then closes her eyes and mutters to herself, “Way to press Dash flipping Pine into manual labor, Ivy.”
The anonymity was nice while it lasted. But this pot is heavy, so I cut her freakout short. “Ivy, is it? Where do you want this thing?”
She snaps her eyes open and scurries toward me. “Here, give it to me. I’m so sorry, Mr. Pine. I didn’t—”
“—I carried a horse in my last film. I can carry a plant. Where should I put it?”
She gestures to a spot next to equally enormous arrangement that she must’ve muscled inside by herself. I squat to lower the planter into position, wondering if she lifts weights.
By the time I straighten to standing, her stricken expression gives way to a knowing grin.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Ivy. It is Ivy, right?”
“Yes. Ivy Jolly, of Blooms by Ivy.”
I can’t help it, I cackle. “Ivy Jolly? Come on. That’s not your real name.”
She heaves a sigh and says in a bored tone, “Yes, it is. I’m one of the Jolly sisters—Holly, Ivy, and Merry. And whatever joke you’re about to make, I assure you, I’ve heard it before.”
“Those are some”—I pause to search for the least offensive descriptor—“festive names.”
Her grin returns with an impish twist. “You should know. “Isn’t Dash short for Dasher? As in the reindeer? And not to be a pedant, but in the movie, wasn’t it a newborn foal? And you didn’t really carry it so much as lift it briefly. Right?”
It’s surprising show of spirit for this small-town florist to bust my balls. But, truth be told, I like it. “Both fair points. In fact, want to know a secret?”
She nods.
I lower my voice and lean close to her. “They wouldn’t let me hold the real foal. It was a fifty-pound bag of flour and post-production special effects.”
It’s her turn to laugh. And, man, her laugh is a languid, mellifluous sound, like sweet honey flowing. I want to pour it over me. As soon as I have the thought, I shake my head—where did that image come from?
Oblivious to my deranged musings, she says, “Well, you were great in that movie even if it was a bag of flour that you rescued from the flood.”
“You saw the movie?”
She blinks. “Sure.”
I steel myself, waiting for the obligatory comment about my butt.
Instead she says, “I loved it. You gave a raw and vulnerable performance.”
“You thought my performance was raw and vulnerable?” I can’t keep the satisfaction out of my voice as I repeat her words.
She throws me a questioning look. “Didn’t I just say that?”
“Actors,” I tell her. “We’re needy.”
She smiles again, a wide, genuine smile that crinkles her eyes. “ You were fantastic. I believed you as Cody Jones.” The smile falters. “I’m sorry everyone seems to be focusing on your ass … ets instead of your artistry.”
The tightness that’s been a constant in my chest since the disastrous interview loosens. When was the last time someone looked at me and saw anything other than Bubble Booty or Vlad the Vampire QB? It’s been . The next thought that pops into my head is wild, but I say it anyway.
“Would you take off your coat?” I gesture at the puffy white parka that covers her from head to mid-calf.
Her face, framed by the white faux fur that trims her hood, setting off those big green eyes and cold-pinked cheeks splashed with freckles, turns an even deeper red as she blushes furiously.
She furrows her brow. “Take it off?”
“Please.” I smile reassuringly, and, I hope, sanely.
She manages a very small, very uncertain return smile.
I’m moderately surprised to find myself holding my breath while I wait for her to decide.
After an interminable moment, she pushes her hood down from her head to reveal a mass of long strawberry blonde hair pinned up on the top of her head in a braided knot. Then she unzips the heavy coat and wriggles out of it. It pools on the wood planks at her feet.
I exhale and study her. She’s nothing like the gorgeous, glamorous Lia Campbell. But, she’s pretty. No. Not pretty, lovely. It’s not a word in my regular vocabulary. But it’s what pops to mind. Ivy Jolly is lovely.
She’s slight and fair. And with her light red hair and bright green eyes she’s my physical opposite.
A striking contrast to my olive skin, jet black hair, dark eyes, and a hard-earned muscular frame.
A romance between me and a small-town florist might hold even more appeal for my public than would one between me and a fellow movie star—even Lia.
The more I think about it, the better it seems. This could work. And, unlike the lifeless business arrangement Lia and I negotiated through our managers, it already feels strangely real.
“I’d like to date you,” I blurt.