Chapter 5
Redder than Rudolph’s Nose
Ivy
Two and half hours earlier
“Date me?” I repeat, certain I’ve misheard.
My nervous system is going haywire at the moment.
I mean, I made a movie star carry a planter, insulted his name and his physical prowess, and taken off my coat at his request. I’m blushing like it’s my job, my heart is flip-flopping in my chest, and I can’t stop staring at him.
The thick, jet-black hair, the liquid brown eyes, the chiseled cheekbones.
Dash Pine, in the flesh, is standing less than three feet away from me.
There’s an excellent chance he said something else.
I study him closer, noting the dark smudges under his famous eyes and a distinct greenish pallor. Maybe he said I have the flu.
I instinctively step back. The last thing I need it to get sick during the holiday season.
But he says, “Yes. Will you date me?”
He’s studying me back with a spark of … something … in his warm brown eyes. I force myself to hold his gaze levelly and pretend not to notice the heat creeping up my neck to my cheeks under his scrutiny.
As a ghostly pale redhead and a certified shy person, everything makes me flush.
So it’s not exactly surprising that I’ve been blushing nonstop under the sustained attention of one of the most gorgeous, most famous men on the planet.
Unbidden, the image of his bare butt pops into my mind in all its naked glory, and my skin blazes.
What’s redder than Rudolph’s nose? That’s gotta be my face right now.
Part of me wants to flee the barn, jump in the truck, and drive back to town. But most of me is wildly curious. And that part wins.
“I don’t understand are you asking me out? Aren’t you here to announce your relationship with Lia Campbell?”
“There’s been a development.”
“What kind of development?”
“She’s not coming. So there’s not going to be an announcement.”
The low timbre of his voice, somewhere between a purr and a growl, pins me to the spot even as the words register and my excitement at breathing the same air as Dash Pine dissipates.
“What about all this?” I gesture around the barn.
If I have to eat the cost of all these blooms, I’ll be pinching pennies until the Fourth of July.
Probably longer. Panic sends my brain into overdrive.
Ideas to sell the flowers and recover some of my money tumble around in my brain, colliding into each other and bouncing off my skull—I can set up a flower cart at the tree lighting, partner with Merry for dessert and flower arrangement special, partner with Holly for a bail hearing and flower arrangement special, drive around to the funeral homes in the valley and hawk flowers to mourners, something.
He’s still watching me, so I try to arrange my expression into something other than abject horror. But my facial muscles are numb, like I’ve had a shot of novocaine. Actually, I’m tingly all over.
I must be having an out-of-body experience. Or I’m in shock at prospect of having to load a thousand-plus flowers back into the pickup truck and figure out what to do with them. Yeah, that’s probably it. Shock.
Then Dash says in that same growly voice, “Unless you agree to date me.”
“What?” Even in a single syllable my bafflement comes through loud and clear.
“Only for a week. Just when the cameras are around.”
“Pretend to date you, you mean?”
“Sure, you could put it that way.”
“No, thank you,” I say as politely as I can.
He throws me an incredulous look. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” I assure him.
“I don’t understand the problem.”
“You don’t? Then maybe I don’t understand what you’re proposing. I thought I heard you say you want me to pose as your girlfriend. Do I have that wrong?”
“No, you’ve got it right. Glad we could clear that up.” He turns up the wattage on his smile, momentarily distracting me with his impossibly white teeth.
When I gather my wits, I narrow my eyes. “Hard pass.”
“Why?”
“Um, maybe because you’re dating Lia Campbell. You came here to announce your relationship to the world, she can’t make it, so you’re willing to throw that all away? I’m not about to get caught up in that mess.”
He frowns. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I’ve had some recent less-than-favorable publicity.”
“Bootygate?” I deadpan.
He groans. “You have heard.”
“I don’t know exactly how quaint you think this town is, but we do have the internet.”
“Then you know how important it is for me to change the narrative. A sweet holiday romance with someone like you will push that mess of the front page and, more importantly, off the For You Page.”
I stare at him as realization dawns. I wonder if a cartoon lightbulb is blinking on above my head.
“Ahhh, I get it. Not a romance with me. A romance with someone like me. Someone fresh-faced and scandal-free. Someone who could stand in for the star of Sugar and Spice because she probably finds you too toxic to even fake date.”
His jaw flexes but he dips his head in acknowledgment. “You’ve nailed it. Lia’s team agreed to a public relationship with me for business reasons. But after yesterday, they think it would be a bad idea.”
“So, it would be bad PR for Lia, but I should do it anyway. Why?”
“You’re not promoting a Christmas rom-com movie.”
I counter, “But I am running a business. And this is the busiest season for, well, everyone in town. I can’t step away for a week to rehab some actor’s image even if I wanted to—which, to be clear, I don’t.”
“You really don’t want to spend a week with someone who’s been voted one of the sexiest men alive four running?” His tone oozes disbelief. “Is this because I mooned the photographers? I don’t usually do that, I promise.”
His reaction should come across as arrogance, but it doesn’t. He simply knows who he is.
And I know who I am, which is why I do not want to be his pretend girlfriend.
“Look. I’m really shy. I don’t love the spotlight. My family calls me the only quiet Jolly. And let’s not forget, I’m a florist, not an actor. I wouldn’t be convincing.”
I flicks my extremely valid objections away with the back of his hand. “I’ll be convincing enough for both of us.”
“I’m flattered. Really. But I have a business to run.”
“No problem. I’ll pay to bring in a team to take care of your shop.”
He says this like it’s a done deal, but my back goes up and I bristle. If I were a porcupine, he’d look like a pin cushion right now.
“Absolutely not,” I huff.
“Why not?”
“My clients expect—and are entitled to—my personal involvement. I really care about my work.” I pause to think of a good metaphor to explain this. “Would you have agreed to a stand-in for the nude scenes in An Inheritance of Irony?”
“Would’ve solved a lot of problems,” he grumbles.
I jut out a hip and pin him with a long look until he caves.
“Of course not. It would have been inauthentic.”
“Right. And bringing in a team of people who don’t know me, my business, or my customers would be equally inauthentic. Besides, there must be a dozen women in town who would jump at the chance to be your girlfriend for the week.”
“I don’t want them. I want you.” He says it bluntly and without hesitation.
“Why?”
“You actually watched the movie. Not for the memes, not to leer at me. You cared about the story.”
I feel myself softening, and I almost give in. But the reality is I genuinely can’t afford to. I use a gentle tone when I say, “I wish I could help you, Dash. But I really don’t have time. I’m buried under an avalanche of flower orders.
“I’ll help you,” I says, breathless.
“You’ll help me? You mean, with the orders?”
“Yes. It’s a great idea. That’s what a real boyfriend would do, right?”
I suppose it is what a real boyfriend would do. But to be honest, I can’t see him clipping the thorns off roses and arranging greenery.
He must sense my skepticism because he continues, “I can do it. If you’ll let me. Didn’t I carry that planter like a champ?” He points to the garden roses and peonies with naked pride.
I can’t help but laugh. “What would this involve, exactly?”
“Not much, really. You’ll stand beside me when I tell the press we’re dating.
Then I’ll take questions and we’ll pose for pictures.
After that, I’ll ask them to respect our privacy while we spend a week together.
There’s nothing that gets you a more sustained media focus than asking for privacy.
So, they’ll follow us around to get candid footage of us …
uh, doing traditional quaint and picturesque Christmas …
things. And I’ll pitch in as a flower delivery guy or whatever you need. ”
“Do you have any favorite holiday traditions?” I have to ask because he seems so unsure of what we would be doing.
He shrugs, and it feels defensive. “Not really. It was just me and mom growing up, and I was usually working. So we’d celebrate wherever I was filming. It was different every year.”
My heart squeezes. I can’t imagine a childhood without holiday traditions. Shoot, I can’t imagine an adulthood without them. A highlight reel of decorating trees, baking cookies, filling stockings, and dancing with the rest of the candies in the Land of the Sweets loops through my mind.
Misinterpreting my silence, he tries another tack. “Being known as Dash Pine’s girlfriend, even briefly, will be marketing fairy dust for your business.”
I waver, but not because of the potential business upside. If I do this, I could take him to the tree lighting, Christmas karaoke, the library book bingo, the gingerbread house contest, and a dozen other events. I could make up for a lifetime of quiet Christmases past for Dash.
Holly would tell me to run away. Merry would tell me to run into his arms.
I've spent my whole life being the sister who listens. I wonder what it will be like to be the one who's seen. I shiver with an unexpected zing of excitement (or maybe it's nerves).
I extend my right hand.
He stares at it.
“You’ll do it?”
“Traditionally, a handshake signifies a deal, Dash.”
He ignores my outstretched hand and swoops me into a hug, picking me up and spinning me around.