Chapter 10
Every Rose Has Its Thorn
Dash
Ivy closes the door behind the Jollys as they leave the cottage and make their way back to the main house in a cloud of laughter and overlapping chatter.
She leans her head back against it dramatically, as if she’s holding them off physically.
After a moment, she shakes out her hands and sighs, then says, “I told you I’m the only quiet Jolly. ”
“I see what you mean.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like the way you negotiated that interaction. I bet you do that a lot.”
She shrugs. “It’s part of living in a family. We all have a role, and mine is peacemaker. Holly’s the caretaker, and Merry’s the entertainer.”
“Does it get old?”
Another shrug.
“They’re fun, though.”
“Are they?”
Her tone and wry expression make clear she’s joking, but I answer her seriously. “Yeah. Growing up as an only child with a single mom, my house was quiet. Too quiet. She worked a lot, and I spent a lot of time by myself.”
Her eyes soften, and I frown. I wasn’t trying to get her sympathy.
“Oh. I guess I never really thought about how lucky we were. I always craved a quiet place to read a book or just be alone with my thoughts, and with my family and an inn full of guests most of the time, solitude was hard to come by. You always want what you can’t have, right?”
I study her mouth. Then her neck. Then the curve of her cheek.
I imagine a makeup artist contouring those freckles away, concealing them for the camera.
And that would be a shame. She’s got the whole girl-next-door thing that casting directors are always looking for and never finding because everyone in LA is trying too hard.
Ivy’s not trying at all. And she’s perfect.
Yeah, I definitely want what I can’t have.
She shifts uncomfortably, as if she knows what I’m thinking, and I realize I’ve been staring at her. I force myself to look away because boundaries, Pine. Boundaries.
I clear my throat. “So now what? Are we going straight to the flower shop or do you need a minute to regroup?”
She raises one eyebrow. “Are you joking? It’s like I just told my family.
I’ve been away from the shop all day. We needed to leave ten minutes ago.
I have to check my messages, prep tomorrow’s arrangements, and then schedule the deliveries.
We’ll be lucky to get to the town square in time for the tree lighting. ”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
Then again, my mom used to cram auditions, grocery runs, and her night shift into the same twelve-hour window while I microwaved Hot Pockets alone in our apartment, so what do I know about busy? At least Ivy’s got an entire family to lean on. Must be nice.
She shrugs. “I love it.”
“Do I need to change?” I gesture at the sweater and dark wash jeans.
“No, but you should find a warmer coat than your leather jacket. Do you have anything? We could borrow something from my dad or Jack.”
I wave her off. “’I’m sure Luna packed appropriate Vermont mountain wear for me.”
“I’m curious what she sent for me. I already have a wardrobe of appropriate Vermont mountain wear.”
I laugh. “Trust me, all of it will be completely inappropriate for the weather, but appropriate for magazine covers and viral reels.” Male actors are dressed for the weather; female actors are dressed for the male gaze.
Her face pales at the reminder of all the attention that’s headed her way, but she presses her lips together and nods.
“Ivy,” I say as she wheels the pink hard case toward what I presume is the bedroom.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Her lips soften into a smile.
Ten minutes later, she’s changed into jeans and a soft flannel shirt layered over a fitted T-shirt.
I’m one hundred percent certain these clothes did not come from the pink case.
I think she was wearing them when she delivered the flowers to the barn.
Brody and Luna would be appalled, but I like it. She looks real. And touchable.
No touching, Pine.
She pulls on her white parka and a pair of gloves. Her one concession to the wardrobe is to wear the stiletto-heeled boots from our photoshoot rather than the weatherproof snow boots she eyes with longing.
I trade my jacket for the puffy black coat that’s currently trending, jam my beanie onto my head, and follow her out the door.
It’s a short, brisk walk to Blooms by Ivy, and as we pass the snow-covered storefronts, Ivy points out local businesses—jeweler, coffee shop, social club, soap store.
They all sport whimsical names and holiday decorations.
Is it quaint? Sure. It could pass for the set of Christmas romance. But how do people actually live here?
“It’s charming,” I say, and I mean it. “But where do you get groceries or things like paper towels and dog food?”
“There are all the usual big box stores in the valley. It’s not a far drive.
But the town made a conscious decision to support small businesses, so you’d be surprised at how much you can source right here.
Like Three Dog Night Pet Supplies, which carries everything from dog food to kitty litter and saddles.
And there’s a year-round farmers market on the square where pretty much everyone does their grocery shopping. ”
“Year round?” I don’t hide my disbelief.
“It moves inside the chapel narthax during the coldest months of winter. And during mud season, obviously.”
“Mud season? Never heard of it.” I tick off the seasons on my fingers. “Winter, spring, summer, fall. No mud season.”
“Well, Vermont definitely has mud season. Our fifth season falls between snowmelt in late March or early April and usually wraps up around Memorial Day.”
“And it’s … muddy.”
“To the extreme. All the mud.”
I pull a face. “Decidedly less charming.”
“We make the best of it. There’s even an annual Mud Pie Festival the first week of May.”
Assuming that the denizens of Mistletoe Mountain aren’t making actual mud pies, I hazard a guess. “Mississippi mud pies?”
She scoffs. “Of course not. Vermont mud pies. Crushed cookies for the crust, covered with a pint each of chocolate and coffee ice cream, topped with chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, and fresh whipped cream. Served with chocolate mousse if you’re feeling decadent.”
“It sounds both delicious and sickening.”
“Right on both counts.”
She’s still smiling at the thought of the mud pie concoction when we reach the small yellow brick townhouse turned storefront. A blue sign over the door identifies it as Blooms by Ivy. She unlocks the door and waves me inside.
I knock the snow off my boots on the cheerful welcome mat while she turns on the lights and flips the ‘closed’ sign around to ‘open.’ I frown at my watch.
“But aren’t you closed? It’s after five.”
“Sure but I was away most of the day for our photo shoot. I can’t afford to have someone cover the counter, so if anybody came by while I was closed, they might stop by again before the tree lighting. I’m here. So I might as well stay open.”
“That’s top-notch customer service.”
She shrugs. “Seems like the right thing to do.”
She powers up a tablet and opens a spreadsheet, then hands it to me.
“This is a list of tomorrow’s orders. They’re all in the refrigerated case against the wall.
” She points to a triple-door glass case stuffed full of floral arrangements.
“Everything should be set to go, but I was pretty tired yesterday, so we should double check the orders.”
“Got it.” As I pull open the first door, she turns on a laptop and starts going through emails, typing rapid responses.
When I hear a pause in her typing, I mark my spot on the order sheet and say, “Mud pies aside, you never wanted to move away?”
Her answer is immediate and unequivocal. “Never. I lived at the inn and commuted to the community college in Stonebridge.”
“And your sisters?”
“Holly went to college in Burlington, then law school in New York. She moved back the day after she graduated.”
“What about Merry?”
“She didn’t go to college. She started baking with our mom when she was three.
My dad built her a stepladder so she could reach the counter.
She won her first regional competition in second grade.
So she convinced our parents to let her use the money set aside for her for college to fund an apprenticeship at a Parisian patisserie. ”
“She knew what she wanted and went for it.”
“She did. And she also knew she wanted to bring her fancy French dessert-making skills back home. She runs a dessert truck now, but one day she’ll have a real bakery.”
We lapse back into silence. I continue to check in orders while she returns several phone calls. When her calls are finished, she joins me at the refrigerated case.
“I’m done with everything else. You read the orders off, and I’ll check them. It’ll go faster.”
I step back. She bends down to retrieve the tablet from the floor, and I admire the view.
She catches me checking her out and shakes her head as she hands me the tablet. “Eyes up here, Dash.”
“My bad.” I gloss over the awkward moment. “I was just about to check the Mins’ order. It’s celosia, salal berries, globe amaranth, and white pine and juniper greens.”
She leans into the second case and removes a wreath. “Check.”
“This next one is an easy one. Ryan Morgenthal ordered fourteen champagne roses.” I look up. “Fourteen?”
“They’re for Josh. It’s their fourteenth anniversary.”
She pulls out a vase and silently counts the pale golden blooms. Then she sticks her face directly into the middle of the flowers and takes a giant sniff.
“Uh, you okay?”
She extends the bouquet. “Smell.”
I inhale. Then I stare at her for a few seconds and inhale again, deeper this time. That distinctly rose fragrance is there—and so is something fruity, something sweet, and something spicy.
“What do you smell?”
“Pears.” Sniff. “And honey.” Another sniff. Then I shake my head. “And some kind of spice. Or maybe licorice?”
“So close. Anise and almond.”
“I thought all roses smelled like roses.”
“Nope. There are five main categories of fragrances, but roses are complex. More than three hundred compounds layer in different combinations to create dozens, maybe hundreds, of scents.” Her voice is tender, almost awe-struck.
I reach out to touch a bloom, and her tone changes. “Careful, they’re—”
My finger pricks. “Ow!”
“—a very thorny variety,” she finishes as a droplet of bright red blood bubbles up on my skin. Followed by another. And another.
I shake my finger and bite back a curse.
She returns the offending roses to the case and puts a hand on my arm to still it just as I’m about to put my finger in my mouth and suck the blood off.
“Don’t,” she says as she pulls me into the back room and heads for a utility sink.
“It’s a time-honored practice,” I tell her. “It’s where the phrase ‘licking your wounds’ comes from.”
“Even if that’s true, Vlad, your mouth isn’t sterile.”
She turns on the water and tests the temperature before guiding my now freely bleeding finger into the stream. After rinsing it, she washes it with liquid soap, rinses it again, and pats it dry with a soft cloth.
“Do you need a bandage?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
We both lower our heads to take a closer look and our foreheads brush together. She laughs and looks up at me. I smooth that tendril of hair that keeps escaping back behind her ear and watch her throat as she swallows hard.
Her pupils dilate, her breath quickens, and the color creeps up her neck to her face as she arches her back. She’s giving me every signal known to man or animal, and my body’s responding. Screw boundaries.
I take her face in my hands, dip my head, and part my lips just as the bells over the store’s front door jangle loudly. We jerk apart. My heart races like we almost got caught, but isn’t that the whole point?