Chapter 8
Meet the Jollys
Dash
Ivy slows the truck to a crawl in front of a stately mansion.
The Inn at Mistletoe Mountain’s wide front porch is swathed in greens and twinkling lights.
A dusting of snow covers the roof. Evergreen wreaths hang from all the windows and two larger wreaths covered in flowers hang from the front doors, which are guarded by a pair of six-foot-tall nutcracker soldiers.
“Wow.” It’s a clumsy, inadequate response to the emotion the inn stirs up.
She smiles. “I know. Even after all these , seeing it decorated for the holidays warms me from the inside out.”
To my surprise, I know what she means. All I can do is repeat “wow” like a dope.
Then she says, “If it’s okay with you, I’ll add your large urns from the photoshoot to the porch.”
I tear my attention away from the house to blink at her. “What?”
“You’re the proud owner of one thousand one hundred and twenty-four fresh flowers, Dash. What do you plan to do with them?”
Leave them in the barn until they die seems like the wrong answer. Underneath my sweater, my shirt collar seems to shrink, cutting off my air supply while my mind races. What am I going to do with over a thousand flowers?
I’m about to curse Brody, when Ivy smiles like she’s wise to my internal freakout.
“You could donate them to the Mistletoe Mountain Merriment Managers. It’s our version of a chamber of commerce. They can dole them out to the various businesses and events to add to their decorations.”
“Great idea.” I agree to the suggestion instantly, thrilled to have the responsibility for a literal truckload of flowers taken off my hands by a council of elves or whatever they are.
She eases the truck forward and turns into an alley. “We’ll park behind the cottage and walk around to the main entrance like regular guests so the press can get some pictures. I’m guessing they’re around here somewhere?”
“Probably hiding in the bushes.”
She giggles, and I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m not joking.
I offer her a hand when she steps out of the pickup truck, then keep her hand in mine as we follow the cobblestone path past the cottage to the walkway around the house to the front. I hear the first shutter click when we draw even with the stand of spruce trees that line the path.
Trees, bushes. I was close enough.
“Is that what I think it is?” she whispers.
I nod, and she nestles closer, her coat sleeve brushing against mine.
Several more photographers, the ones who were smart enough to get out of the cold, scrabble out of two cars parked in front of the inn when they spot us mounting the steps to the porch.
At the wide double doors, I turn us around to pose for a clear shot, making sure to position her that so one of her enormous wreaths is visible behind us.
Might as well get her some product placement.
I flash a smile and give a friendly wave before I push open the doors, setting off a jangle of jingle bells.
I stop just inside the door to stare. The lobby makes the inn’s exterior look sedate and sparsely decorated.
Everywhere I look I see twinkling lights, fresh garlands and an inordinate number of nutcrackers.
The air, warmed by the fire crackling in the fireplace, smells of evergreens, oranges, and cinnamon.
Soft music is playing from hidden speakers.
It’s a cozy, welcoming, scene. I relax my shoulders and loosen my jaw.
My moment of quiet bliss is cut short by a swarm of squealing women.
Based on the volume and intensity of the noise, I’d guess there are a dozen of them.
But once the swirling bodies settle, there are only three: a blonde and a brunette, both in their twenties, and a woman in her forties.
This must be the sisters and their dad’s fiancee.
The women pepper Ivy with questions, their voices overlapping.
I can’t make out any of it. Ivy shrinks, rounding her shoulders and ducking her head under the sustained assault of noise.
I wrap my arm around her and snug her into my side. She gives me a sideways glance, probably thinking there’s no need to pretend we’re dating with them. But that’s not why I pulled her close. Instinctively, I want to protect her.
Protect her from her family? Hardly necessary. They’re loud—really loud—and excited, but they’re not aggressive or overbearing. Still, I felt her discomfort and reacted without thinking. And she nestled into my side like she belongs there.
Before I can continue with my self-analysis, a man strolls out from behind the registration desk to clap my back and shake my hand. His grip is firmly but not bone crushing. He smiles, entirely at ease with himself and apparently unfazed by meeting a major movie star.
“Welcome to the Inn at Mistletoe Mountain, Dash.”
“Thank you. This place is amazing, Mr. Jolly.”
“Wait until you see the cottage. And call me Nick.”
He holds out his arms, and Ivy wriggles free of me to hug her father hello.
I turn to find Noelle at my elbow. “Hi. I bet you’re Noelle.”
“I sure am,” she chirps. “Your manager arranged for your bags to be sent over, and someone named Luna dropped off a ‘wardrobe’ for Ivy.” She draws air quotes as she says wardrobe and waits a beat before continuing.
“Obviously, Ivy knows all the ins and outs around here. But if you need anything, promise you won’t hesitate to ask. ”
“Thanks. And I promise.”
I study her for a moment. I know she and Ivy aren’t related, but with their red hair, green eyes, and freckles they could be mother and daughter.
Ivy’s sisters, in contrast, look nothing like her—or each other.
One is taller than Ivy and has blonde hair and blue eyes.
The other is much shorter with dark curly hair.
I’m guessing she’s Merry because her jeans are dusted with flour and she’s sporting a blue bandage like chefs use around her right ring finger.
I catch Nick’s eye. “Can we talk?”
He holds my gaze for an uncomfortably long moment before gesturing toward a door. I feel the women watching us.
“We’ll take Ivy to get settled in at the cottage,” Holly declares. “Come over when you’re done. And bring Jack. He’s floating around here somewhere.”
As I follow the patriarch through a set of pocket doors, the rest of the Jollys usher Ivy down a long hallway in a cloud of laughter.
Nick leads me to a large kitchen and leans against the center island. “You want some eggnog?”
I’ve never actually had eggnog. “I’m not sure. What is it?”
He chuckles and opens the refrigerator. “Let’s start you out with something easy.”
He pulls out two beers, uses an opener stuck to the fridge with a magnet to pop off the caps, and hands me a bottle. He tilts his bottle toward mine and we click the necks together. Then I raise mine to my lips and take a long pull of cold beer.
“Pretty good.” I study the label. “Frosty brown ale. Never heard of it.”
“You wouldn’t have. Frosty Brewery is local. They host a beer garden after the tree lighting.”
I take another swig of liquid courage, then blurt, “Ivy and I aren’t really a couple.”
He quirks his mouth, then deadpans, “No, really?” He sips his ale. “Did you know Noelle and I signed an NDA? You’re supposed to be staying here with Lia Campbell. You can imagine my surprise when you announced that my middle daughter is your girlfriend.”
I choke on a mouthful of beer. “I can.”
“What happened?”
“I recently starred in a film—”
“An Inheritance of Irony. The girls couldn’t stop talking about it, so Noelle and I went to see it for date night.”
Don’t ask.
I ask.
“What did you think?”
“It was a good film. Substantive. It stayed with me afterward. Although your rear end didn’t leave the impression on me that it left on my fiancée and daughters.”
My spark of pride flickers out, and I wonder if Ivy lied to me.
“All of your daughters?”
He gives me a curious, thoughtful look and is silent for a few seconds. “Come to think of it, that was mainly Holly and Mary. Ivy raved about the movie, but I don’t think I heard her talking about your butt.”
The flame relights, even brighter.
“They weren’t the only ones who focused on my physical attributes rather than my performance, and I didn’t handle it as well as I might have.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“So my manager and Lia’s hatched a fake romance plan. We were supposed to come here today and announce that we’ve been dating seriously and are taking a break from promoting our movies to spend the week whatever heartwarming Christmassy things people do in Mistletoe Mountain.”
“Smart. Cynical, but smart. However, Ivy is not Lia Campbell.”
Here we go. I sigh. “Apparently last night I—um—”
“You dropped your drawers in front of the press.”
I clear my throat and try not to sound defensive or cowed.
“Right, that happened, and as a result Lia backed out of our arrangement. But I was already here, Ivy had already delivered a thousand flowers, and it was too late to cancel on the press. I thought I was cooked. Then I met Ivy. I realized a real girl next door would make an excellent substitute sweetheart. Am I wrong?”
He gives me a level gaze. “No, you’re not. Ivy’s the real deal, and being tied to her in this community will make you an instant favorite. I don’t know about the rest of the world, and I’m probably biased as her father, but I think she’s going to give your image a bump. What’s in it for her?”
I stare at him for a long moment, then shake my head. “I don’t honestly know, Nick. I did agree to help her with her floral orders because I understand this is a busy time of year. And if she normally pitches in around the inn, I’ll be happy to do that, too. But I have no idea why she said yes.”
“Carol, Ivy’s mom, used to say Ivy collected strays.” He laughs.
“Strays?”
“She would bring home injured birds, hungry dogs, and pregnant barn cats. The new, friendless kid at school. A lonely senior citizen whose spouse recently passed away. Her empathy is dialed up to eleven. I suspect she feels sorry for you.”
I gape at him. “Sorry for me?” The idea is beyond comprehension. “Nobody feels sorry for a rogue movie star.” I should know.
“Ivy would.”
“Huh.”
Before the idea can sink in, he finishes his beer in one long swallow and rests the empty bottle on the counter near the sink. “Let’s get you checked in and rescue Ivy from the gaggle of girls. You can bring your beer.”
Instead, I chug the rest of the ale and place my bottle next to his. I follow him outside in a daze. I don’t think anyone, ever, has felt sorry for Dasher Pine. I can’t wrap my mind around it.