Chapter 16
A Public Relations Cat-astrophe
Dash
After a not-so-sensible breakfast of a thick slice of Merry’s gingerbread apple coffee cake (washed down with my iced green drink as penance) and a quick shower, I leave the cottage and swing by Nick’s workshop in the garage to pick up Ivy.
She’s sitting on a sawhorse table, keeping her father company as he runs a wood lathe over a piece of cedar.
The small workspace smells like fresh pencil shavings.
Ivy catches my eye and waves. Nick turns off the lathe and pushes his safety glasses to the top of his head.
“Morning, Dash.”
“Good morning,” I reply. “Do you mind if I steal your daughter?”
“Just so long as you promise to return her,” he cracks.
I wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a dad like Nick Jolly. I can’t imagine it any more than I could imagine growing up at the North Pole, so I dismiss the thought.
Ivy hops off the table and kisses him on the cheek. And then we head out for my personal tour of Mistletoe Mountain. She’s arranged for Farah, a college student looking for extra cash, to watch the flower shop for her today. So we have all day to wander.
She insists we start at the Snowflake Cafe, Delphina’s coffee shop.
When we walk inside a cloud of scent envelopes us.
Cinnamon, cardamom, and gingerbread mingling with the aroma of strong coffee in a delicious, heady perfume.
A vintage chandelier made entirely of Christmas ornaments catches the morning light, sending prisms across the pink and white tile floor.
Behind the counter, the espresso machine hisses steam.
Jazzy instrumental holiday music plays over the speakers.
We’re early enough that we’ve beat the crowd of caffeine seekers Ivy says will descend on the shop over the next hour.
We walk right up to the gleaming counter.
A handful of early risers sit at the tables in front of the window, watching us with open interest while they sip their drinks and nibble on pastries.
Delphina spots us and her whole face lights up under her green elf hat. She leans across the counter and stage-whispers, “You two are trending.”
“We’re what?” Ivy asks, but Delphina’s already spinning her tablet around.
Photos from yesterday’s tree farm visit fill the screen.
Me and Ivy by the bonfire, our heads close together.
Her carrying the tree with her sisters. Me drinking cider while she smiles at something Jack is saying.
The photos are perfect. The hashtags make me cringe, as usual: #DashAndIvy #SmallTownRomance #VampireGoesPastoral.
“Eighty-six thousand likes on this one already.” Delphina taps a photo of Ivy brushing snow off my shoulder. “You two are adorable.”
Through the frosted window, I spot the photographers who’ve been tailing us since we left the cottage approaching. Shane’s already inside, pretending to study the pastry case with intense concentration. He’s not fooling anyone.
“What can I get you?” Delphina asks.
I glance at the menu board, which features drinks with names like “Sugarplum Latte” and “Gingerbread Bliss.” I’m in over my head.
“Whatever Ivy’s having,” I say.
Ivy grins. “You sure about that?”
“How bad could it be?”
Five minutes later, I’m staring at a to-go tumbler topped with what appears to be a cloud of pink foam studded with candy cane pieces.
“Is this a dessert?” I ask.
“Welcome to the holiday season at the Snowflake Cafe.” Ivy laughs. “It’s basically melted Christmas in a cup.”
I take a cautious sip. Sugar explodes across my tongue, followed by white chocolate and cream and peppermint. It’s ridiculous. It’s delicious. I’m a convert.
“Oh, before I forget!” Delphina leans forward conspiratorially. “Titus is doing the soft opening for his Cat Cafe today. He’s been planning this for months—he’d be over the moon if you stop by. And bring your entourage.” She gives a nod toward the press.
Ivy beams. “We will absolutely do that.”
A chalkboard near the register catches my eye: “Suspended: 12 coffees, 8 meals.” Below it, in smaller letters: “Pay it forward. Someone’s always hungry.”
“What’s this about?” I ask, pointing.
“Oh, the suspended program? Anyone can buy an extra coffee or meal for someone who needs it. We don’t make a big deal about it—folks just come in and ask if there’s anything suspended, and we take care of them.”
She says it like it’s a small thing, but it’s not. In LA, I write checks to charities for the tax deduction. Here, neighbors buy each other lunch.
“That’s …,” I start, but I don’t have words for what it is.
“That’s Mistletoe Mountain,” Ivy finishes softly, and her hand finds mine.
Shane’s camera clicks by the pastry case as I dig some bills out of my wallet and pass them to Delphina and ask her to add to them to the kitty.
We take our sugary concoctions to go and head down the street to Frost & Fizz Bathworks. The small shop is tucked between a vintage clothing store and a yarn shop and is easy to miss if you’re not looking for the baby blue front door.
The moment we step inside, yet another wall of layered scent hits me. This one is pine and peppermint and vanilla and cranberry, sugar and spice. Every surface is covered with colorful soaps, bath bombs, and lotions, all with handwritten labels and kraft paper packaging tied with twine bows.
Behind the counter, a woman with long silver hair in a thick braid looks up and smiles. Her apron is dusted with something sparkly—mica powder, maybe. “Ivy, so good to see you!”
“Hi, Autumn. This is—”
The woman laughs, “I know who Dash Pine is, girl.” She grins at me, “I’m Autumn Frost. This is my shop. Look around. Let me know if you need anything.”
I whisper to Ivy. “Is her name really—?”
“It really is.”
I grin at the absurdity as I wander through the shop, picking up and sniffing the winter-themed bar soaps.
Frostbitten Fir soap is dark green with silver swirls.
There’s also Mistletoe Kiss, pale green studded with what look like tiny white and red berries.
Rust-colored Cinnamon Stick smells exactly like its name.
“Shopping for someone special?” Ivy asks, appearing at my elbow.
“My mom. She works hard. Doesn’t really treat herself. Even now, when I have all the money in the world, she works like she thinks this will all disappear one day.”
Ivy’s expression softens and she presses her hand against my cheek. “It’s sweet of you to treat her since she doesn’t treat herself.”
I don’t know how to respond to this, so I take her hand and lift it to my mouth. As I drop a kiss on to her warm palm, the photographers crowded around the window outside the tiny store snap pictures in a frenzy.
I move to the next display and choose bath bombs that fizz silver and blue, body butter in a vintage-style tin labeled Northern Lights, and several foaming hand soaps named for the sweets from The Nutcracker.
When I bring my shopping basket up to the counter, Autumn compliments my choices as she rings up my purchases. “I can gift wrap and ship these for you,” she offers. “I ship all over—had an order go to Dubai last week.”
“That would be great.”
I recite my mom’s mailing address and phone number for Autumn. While I’m signing the credit card slip, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Ivy’s grabbed a pen from the counter and is scribbling something on her forearm, under her sweater sleeve. She catches me looking and smiles innocently.
I offer to take a picture with Autumn, and she practically leaps over the counter to stand beside me and smile as Ivy dutifully snaps a few shots with Autumn’s cell phone.
“Okay if I post this on my social media?” Autumn asks.
“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” I tell her.
Once Ivy and I are back on the sidewalk I say, “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You wrote something on your arm.”
“Just a reminder.” She won’t meet my eyes, and I’m about to press when she gasps. “Oh! I almost forgot—look what Autumn gave me while you were shopping.” She pulls a small glass jar from her coat pocket.
“What is it?”
“A sample of a new body scrub she’s working on. Currently, she’s calling it Reindeer Dust.”
“What even is reindeer dust?”
“Sugar, coffee grounds, and holiday magic, which is what Autumn calls glitter.”
I laugh and forget all about Ivy’s mysterious reminder.
Titus’ Teahouse & Cat Cafe is a restored Victorian house with bay windows and a pressed tin ceiling that catches the afternoon light.
The space is quirky, with mismatched vintage teacups, velvet furniture, loads of plants, and overloaded bookshelves.
And more cats than I can count. Cats on climbing trees.
Cats in window perches. Cats sleeping in sunbeams. Cats on shelves.
Cats everywhere. Fur floats through the air and tumbles along the wood floor.
Titus bustles out from a back room to greet us. The bartender turned teahouse proprietor’s nervous energy is palpable. I get it. This cafe is his dream made real, and there’s a certain terror to that.
He embraces Ivy and then hits me with the classic bro handshake/one-armed hug. “Thanks for coming, man.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” I say as I slap his back and stifle a sneeze.
There’s a small crowd of soft-opening attendees, including Shane. He’s trying to blend in, but his camera and his smirk give him away.
Ivy makes a beeline for a Persian cat lounging on a window seat. She scoops it up, nuzzling its face.
“That’s Lady Marmalade,” Titus tells her.
“Isn’t she a pretty kitty?” Ivy coos.
I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or the feline. The cat is objectively gorgeous—long cream-colored fur, flat face, amber eyes. But my own eyes are already starting to water.
“Yeah, beautiful,” I manage.
Two minutes later, my eyes are actively burning. I rub them furiously, which, of course, only makes it worse. Then my nose starts to run.
“You okay?” Ivy asks, still cuddling the cat.
“Fine. Probably.”
I don’t want to ruin Titus’ opening. But my eyes are beginning to swell. I need to get out of here.
“Here, hold King Cole,” Titus suggests, as he tries to place a black kitten with enormous yellow eyes in my arms. “I’m not really a cat person,” I apologize, backing away.
I bump directly into Shane.
Click.
He catches the image of my red, watering eyes, refusing to hold the kitten as I grimace. And there’s no doubt he heard me. Ivy’s crestfallen expression confirms it.
“He’s going to make you look like a monster.”
I try to laugh it off. “I’m obviously allergic.
That’s not a crime.” But even as I say it, I know Shane’s going to sell the photo multiple times, and I’m already imagining the headlines.
“Dash the Dog Trashes Cats” or “Bad Boy Dash Pine Can’t Even Be Nice to Kittens” or something worse than anything I can come up with.
“We should go,” Ivy says quietly.
Titus looks stricken, and I feel like I’ve ruined his opening, which makes the whole mess that much worse. I mumble an apology and stumble outside, where the cold air hits my face like salvation. I can breathe again. But a boulder of dread sits in my stomach.