Chapter 12
Dancing Around the Truth
Dash
I lead Ivy to the crowded parquet dance floor at the front of the tent. The DJ waves energetically to Ivy, light pink box braids bouncing off her tawny brown shoulders, bare in her off-the-shoulder white fur trimmed Mrs. Claus dress, as she dances behind her table.
“Hey, Nebula,” Ivy calls to her over the thumping beat.
DJ Nebula winks at her and flashes a sly smile before she leans into her mic and drawls in a voice like honey. “Okay merriment makers, let’s slow it down with Leslie Odom, Jr., and Cynthia Erivo’s version of ‘Winter Song.’”
The bass fades out, and the crowd quiet as the opening strands of the ballad fill the air. Ivy gazes up at me with those impossibly big green eyes. “It’s showtime, I guess.”
I grin down at her and place my right hand on her hip to tug her toward me.
She swallows hard as she rests her left hand on the front of my shoulder.
Even in the high-heeled boots, she’s not tall enough to reach my neck.
The fingers of my left hand and her right weave together as we sway gently to the song’s slow rhythm.
Her heart beats against my sweater. After a moment, she lowers her gaze and rests her cheek on my chest. Before I can stop myself, I dip my head and breathe in the scent of her warm skin and silky hair.
“You smell like those champagne roses,” I murmur against her neck. It’s a heady floral scent of spice, fruit, and honey. “Your perfume?”
She laughs, a soft vibration against my chest. “No, occupational hazard.”
I inhale again and reflexively press her closer, trapping our hands between our bodies. I forget the cameras, the onlookers, the deal. All I can think about is how much I want her. No, I need her.
The thought is an alarm bell breaking through my desire. Danger. This woman could destroy you.
My involuntary groan startles her, and she pulls back, craning her neck to look up at me. “Is something wrong?”
In response I make a throaty sound that could mean anything—or nothing. I swallow and try again. “How long is this song anyway?”
She laughs lightly, and I relax. She hasn’t picked up on my panic or my want.
The song finally ends. Before I can lead her off the dance floor, another song starts up.
Another slow one. Ivy moves back into place, her body pressed close against mine and I throw the DJ a look over her head.
In return, Nebula shoots finger guns at me and grins like she’s doing me a favor. She probably thinks she is.
Three, maybe four, more minutes of torture. I’ve filmed standing waist-deep in ice water for hours. I can sway with a beautiful woman in my arms for one more song.
I’ve almost convinced myself when Ivy says, “You never answered me—about your favorite holiday tradition.”
I close my eyes for a beat. I’d hoped asking her to dance would get me out of answering this question. Not only did that not work, now I’m once again having to fight my attraction to her. Great work, Dash.
Then I mentally shrug. If nothing else, this crappy topic ought to tamp down my desire.
“I don’t really have any,” I say to the top of her head.
She stops moving in my arms and cranes her neck to study my face. “Not even one?”
“My mom had me when she was nineteen and raised me on her own. Between working nights and spending her days driving me around to auditions and acting classes, she just about had time to make sure I did my schoolwork and all the other parenting things—you know, shopping, cooking, whatever. We didn’t have the time, or frankly, the money, to really celebrate the holidays. ”
“Oh.” Her voice is small and sad.
“It was fine. I didn’t know any different when I was younger. And then once I landed the role as Vlad, we traveled on winter breaks.”
She’s quiet for a moment, considering this. “What about your grandparents?”
“What about them?”
“You didn’t spend holidays with them when you were little?”
“She moved to Los Angeles when she was eighteen, the day after she graduated high school. Her parents weren’t thrilled about that. Then when she got pregnant and decided to keep me, they disowned her.”
She squeezes my hand and makes a little sound.
My voice flattens as I force out, “I’ve never met them.”
“Dash, I’m so sorry.” She traces a slow circle on my chest with her palm, like she’s soothing a baby.
“Don’t be,” I grit out. “I can’t miss them. I never knew them.”
“Mmm.” She catches her lip between her teeth as she weighs her next question. “Your dad didn’t—wasn’t involved?”
“I don’t know who my father is.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand. Your mother never told you his name?”
“No.”
“What does it say on your birth certificate?”
“Father unknown.”
“Is he?”
“Unknown? Not to her. But she’s adamant that there’s no need to know anything about him. He chose not to have anything to do with us.”
Her voice wobbles. “Dash—”
We’re no longer dancing, just standing stock still in the middle of a crowded dance floor in a crowded tent with hundreds of pairs of curious eyes trained on us. I lower my voice, “I’d really rather not talk about this. Not here, not now.”
She frowns and stiffens in my arms. “Okay, I’m sorry. But ….”
I wait, but she doesn’t continue. “But what?” I finally prompt her.
“You said that you never lie to your mother.”
“That’s right.”
She stretches up onto her toes and presses her cool hands against my burning face. “But you’re not completely honest with her either. You haven’t told her that her decision isn’t fair to you. You haven’t told her that you’re hurt, that you deserve to know who your father is, at a minimum.”
My jaw tightens as the words hit like a gut punch. It’s the raw truth, plain and clear. And it hurts like hell.
Maybe that’s why I lower my mouth to her, fierce with need. Or maybe it was inevitable all along. Either way, I push the words from my mind as I probe her welcoming mouth with my tongue, tasting the sweetness of her. This isn’t for the cameras, this is for me.
When I regain control of myself, the first thing I notice is the stillness. There’s no music. DJ Nebula is gawking at us, along with the rest of town and the press. I catch her eye and she hurriedly queues up a banger. The world starts turning again. Conversations resume.
Ivy and I are still entwined. I ease her hands from my shoulders and she steps back quickly.
Her chest heaves. I’ve managed to destroy her updo.
Strawberry blonde waves fall over her face like a curtain.
Her lips are swollen. Her head is down, so I can’t see her face, but the smart money says she’s flushed.
Before I can say a word, she pushes her hair out of her eyes and looks up. “Do you think they got what they needed?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I give her a blank look. “Who?”
“The photographers?” She frowns, confused by my confusion.
Ice water flows through my veins, dousing the heat we created. Right. The press.
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”
She turns her mouth up into a small smile.
Merry shimmies across the tent in time to the music and plants herself in front of us. “We’re bouncing to Rudy’s. You guys in?”
I glance at Ivy.
“It’s a dive bar,” she explains. Then she turns to her sister. “Who’s we?”
“Quinn, Delph, Titus, and me.”
“Holly and Jack aren’t going?”
Merry rolls her eyes. “They begged off. Jack says she’s tired.”
Ivy purses her lips, and some silent sibling communication passes between them. After a moment, Merry says, “Exactly.”
“If you want to go along, have at it,” I tell Ivy. “I’m going to take pity on the press and go back to the cottage.”
“Come again?” her sister asks.
“They can’t call it a night until I do.”
Merry wrinkles her nose. “Eww, so they’re hanging around hoping you show your butt again?”
“Pretty much—literally and metaphorical.” I shrug. “It’s their job.”
Every celebrity who bitterly dismisses the media as parasites is either a hypocrite or confused about the nature of the symbiotic relationship in question. It’s not parasitic, it’s obligate mutualistic. We need each other. Without us, there’s no story. Without them, there’s no attention.
Ivy gives me a look I can’t read and says, “I’m going to turn in, too. It’ll look bad if I go out partying without my boyfriend on his first night in town.”
She has a point. Even Merry nods in agreement, although she makes sure to call us lame before she hugs Ivy and flits off.
Back at our table, I ask, “Is there anybody you want to say goodbye to?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
I hold her coat for her and she wriggles into it. A pair of photographers start snapping pictures. I can see the headline now, “Dashing Dash Shows Chivalry Survives.” If there’s one thing entertainment reporters love, it’s alliteration.
I grab her hand and lead her to the cluster of photographers. “Hey, we’re calling it a night. You can feel free to follow us back to the cottage and stand around freezing your butts off. Or you can clock out and have a free beer. I recommend the Frosty lager.”
The bearded guy, whose name is Raj or Ron, something short that start with an R, grabs his camera bag from the floor. “Sounds good to me.”
A stringer for a gossip website wants one last shot. ”Come on, Dash, Ivy, give us one more kiss," he wheedles.
I’m not about to subject her—or myself—to another kiss when I’ve barely recovered from the last one.
“We’re tired, folks.” I turn to leave but Ivy tugs on my arm.
When I look back at her, she points to the tent’s roof. “We’re under the mistletoe.”
Sure enough, a full spring of the stuff hangs from the canopy by a red velvet ribbon. It’s directly over our heads. I search her face and she gives me the tiniest nod.
Okay then, we’re doing this.
“What are the odds?” I crack.
“The odds are excellent,” she informs me. “It hangs all over town all month long.”
Raj/Ron grabs his bag and takes out the camera he just put away. Once they’re ready to capture the shot, I turn her in my arms so that the twinkling lights play over her face. She tips her head back and I swoop in for the kiss.
Her lips are unyielding this time. I get it. I cup her cheeks and she stretches up to wind her fingers through my hair. I smile against her mouth. She’s a natural. She instinctively understands the kiss can be chaste so long as the rest of our body language tells a different story.
I concentrate on the flashbulbs, the music, the crowd. Anything but the woman in my arms.
After a beat, we break apart.
“Good night,” she says with a warm, open smile. The press eats it up. She’s fresh-faced and real, completely different from the polished pros they’re used to.
When we leave the tent, the wind’s picked up. Blowing snow stings my face, and I lower my head against it.
“It’s a short walk,” she promises. Then, “There’s only one bed.”
I’d noticed. Believe me, I’d noticed.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I tell her.
“We’ll take turns.”
I frown at this. “We’ll figure it out once we’re inside.”
We cover the rest of the distance in silence. When we reach the path to the cottage, she breaks into a jog and I follow suit. She punches in the code to unlock the door and we hurry in from the cold.
She kicks off her boots and stows them on a shelf built into the base of the bench beside the door. I do the same with my shoes and take off the ski jacket. She strips off her parka and hangs it on the coat rack. Her teeth chatter.
“Do you want me to make a fire?” I ask, rubbing my hands together and pointing my chin toward the fireplace.
She raises an eyebrow. “You know how to make a fire?”
“Cody Jones makes a fire after he leaves the ranch to wander,” I remind her.
“You made that fire yourself?”
“Well, no,” I allow. “But I learned how to make one. The closeup of Cody’s shaking hands, that’s me. But the director wanted a really big, impressive fire so the pyrotechnics team enhanced it.”
She smiles and leans against the kitchen island. “I want to see this. You make a fire, I’ll make us some tea.”
“Deal.”
I crouch in front of the hearth and reach for the kindling while she fills the kettle with water, softly humming to herself.
A white flash outside the big window over the couch pulls my attention away from the fire.
In the kitchen, Ivy shrieks my name and points toward the window and the dark night beyond.
I wheel around in time to see Shane Nottingham’s pale face in the glass.
Nottingham is a true weasel. The kind of paparazzi who would snap pictures of models sunbathing topless in their own backyard, chase a car through a tunnel, or have no qualms about following a celeb’s kid to school. He is a parasite.
A fireball of rage roars through my belly.
I grip the fireplace poker in my hand and explode to my feet.
Yank open the door and tear outside in my socks, snarling Shane’s name.
He jumps down from the ledge, crashes through the hedgerow, and flees behind the Jollys' garage.
I chase him down the snowy alley until he vanishes from sight.
I stand, panting and seething, for a long moment. My heart thuds as adrenaline washes over me in waves.
By the time I come back inside, I’ve cooled down.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Ivy in a calm voice as I peel off my sopping socks. “He’s known for stunts like that.”
She hands me a mug, and I wrap my cold hands around the hot ceramic. “It’s not your fault. But I guess taking turns on the couch isn’t going to work. At least not until we get a window covering.”