Chapter 18
Simmering
Ivy
Leave it to Griselda to enter from stage left with a viable solution to the cat disaster. Her timing, as always, is spot on. My shoulders unclench, and walking next to me, Dash stops checking his phone every seven seconds and stows it in his pocket on Do Not Disturb.
“Want to grab dinner?” he asks, hands still shoved in his coat pockets.
I can’t. I need to go back to the flower shop. I should check on tomorrow’s orders, respond to the seventeen texts from Merry, and prepare the supplies for my wreath-making workshop.
So why do I hear myself say, “Wanna cook instead?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Cook? Like, actual cooking?”
“Mountain Organics is right there.” I point across the square to the small storefront with its handwritten chalkboard signs visible through the window. “We could make soup. Bread. Something warm.”
He studies my face for a moment, deliberating. Then he grins. “Okay. But I’m warning you—my kitchen skills peak at scrambling eggs. I definitely can’t make bread.”
“I’ll bake the bread. Think you can handle chopping vegetables?”
“With sufficient direction, it shouldn’t be any harder than rescuing a bag of flour from rising waters.”
As we cross the square, snow crunching underfoot, I’m smiling so wide my face hurts. Or maybe that’s frostbite.
Mountain Organics is busy, as usual. I grab a basket from the stack by the door and we navigate the narrow aisles lined with wooden bins and glass jars, everything labeled in neat handwriting. Behind the counter, Marcus Chen waves at us while bagging Marley Jacobs’ groceries.
I toss produce into the basket—carrots, celery, onions, potatoes. I skip the herbs; Dad keeps the cottage stocked with spices. Dash trails behind me.
“They have it,” he says, holding up a small tin of matcha powder.
“I told you we’re not completely backward.”
“I never said backward. I said charming.” He adds the tin to our basket. “And maybe a little stuck in a snow globe.”
“Fair.”
At the register, Marcus rings us up while pretending not to stare at Dash. “Making dinner together? That’s nice.”
Dash slides his credit card across the counter. “First time for everything.”
“Ivy’s a good teacher.” Marcus bags our items. “She taught my daughter how to arrange flowers last summer. Very patient, and she has a sneaky sense of humor, quiet as she is.”
“I’ve noticed,” Dash says warmly.
Flustered, I redirect their attention. “Caitlyn’s a quick study. Do you want to get Dash’s autograph for her? Or a picture?”
“For her? How about for me?” Marcus laughs.
Dash waves him around the counter and I snap a handful of shots with Marcus’ phone. Maybe I should add photographer to my resume. The thought makes me snicker, and it hits me that we haven’t seen the photographers since before Rudy’s.
I mention this to Dash after we leave the warmth of the market.
He nods. “They’re probably stoking the fires of the #DashVsCats drama by reposting old shots of me behaving less than perfectly and updating the stories about us. The internet moves fast; they have to milk the story while they can.”
His matter-of-fact delivery doesn’t fool me. He’s still beating himself up.
“An allergy isn’t a character flaw,” I remind him. “And once Griselda announces the Santa Paws fundraiser, you’ll be the good guy again.”
“I know. Everything’s cyclical in the entertainment business. Sometimes, though, I feel like a hamster on a wheel.”
He’s the hottest hamster I’ve ever seen, but I keep this thought to myself. We walk the rest of the way to the cottage in comfortable silence, swinging our bags of groceries between us.
Inside the cottage, I kick off my boots and put the bags down in the kitchen while Dash shrugs out of his coat.
He pulls out his phone. “Music?”
“Sure. Nothing too Christmassy, please. It’s a long month of holiday music around here.”
Acoustic coffeehouse music fills the cottage.
“How’s this?”
“Perfect.”
I tie my hair back and wash my hands while Dash rolls up his sleeves. I’m acutely aware of sharing the small kitchen space with him.
I pull out a large glass bowl. “Bread first. It needs time to rise.”
“I’ve never made bread. I’ve never met anybody who makes bread.”
“It’s easier than you think. And therapeutic.” I measure flour into the bowl, then hand him the measuring cup. “Your turn. Two more cups, then a quarter cup more.”
He’s quiet, concentrating as he levels each cup with the back of a knife. I add the yeast and salt and whisk the ingredients together then pour in the warm water.
I give him a spatula.
“What do I do with this?”
“Mix it around until it forms a sticky ball.”
He shoots me a skeptical look but does it. When the dough takes shape, he gives an excited shout and I try to hide my amusement.
“Now what?”
“Now we cover the bowl and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For it to rise. It’ll take at least two hours, maybe more. We want it to double in size. We can make the soup in the mean time.”
The playlist ends. “More music?” He reaches for his phone.
“Sure or a podcast.” I glance at him. “Or we could talk.”
“What would we talk about?”
“I don’t know. Normal people things. Favorite foods. Memorable cooking disasters. Whatever.”
He laughs. “Okay, we’ll give it a try.”
I stretch one of the reusable covers that Merry swears by over the bowl and set the dough aside. He uncorks a bottle of red wine and pours us each a glass, then studies the vegetables on the counter. “Where do we start?”
“Chopping. I’ll show you.”
I show him how to hold a knife and move his hand while we chop the first carrot. Then I push the rest of the carrots toward him. “You do the rest.”
Again, he follows my instructions carefully.
I peel the onions and add them to his pile. “Cut these in quarters and then dice them.”
“Yes, chef.”
He attacks them with gusto, but tears start streaming down his face, he gives me a look as though I’ve betrayed him.
“You didn’t warn me about this.”
“Try breathing through your mouth.”
He does. “That doesn’t help.”
“No, but it’s what everyone says to do.”
He laughs through the tears, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A bit.” I bump his hip with mine, surprising us both. “But you’re doing great. Look at your perfect dice.”
He works his way through the vegetables—more carrots, celery, potatoes. Dash gets faster and more confident. I sauté the aromatics in an enamel Dutch oven while he continues chopping. Before long, the kitchen fills with the sweet scent of caramelizing onions and garlic.
“Brody called this afternoon,” Dash says suddenly, the knife stilling.
“Oh? About the cat situation?”
“No. He called with a job offer.” He doesn’t look at me and returns to dicing potatoes with careful precision.
“Congratulations.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
I sip my wine and wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. So I don’t push.
“If you don’t cook, do you order takeout every night? Or go out to eat?”
He gives me a sheepish look. “I have a chef.”
Of course he has a personal chef. Somehow, I managed to forget briefly that he’s not a regular person. He’s rich. He’s famous. He’s Dash Pine.
“Vegetables are done,” he announces.
I dump them into the pot, add the vegetable stock, seasonings, and a generous splash of wine. I cover the pot and leave the soup to simmer.
“More waiting,” I tell him.
I wash the dishes and wipe down the counters while he lights a fire. I carry our wineglasses into the living room and we claim opposite ends of the couch. The soup simmers. The bread bakes. The fire crackles. Quiet domesticity with the sexiest man alive—literally.
“I’ve never sat around waiting for bread to bake. It’s relaxing.”
“It’s not a regular hobby for me either,” I tell him. “Even since I opened Blooms, I’ve been working like a Wall Street finance bro. Always hustling, pulling all-nighters. I slept at the shop a few times.”
“You’re smiling about it, though,” he observes.
“I love what I do,” I say simply.
“I get it. It’s how I feel—felt—about acting. An eighteen-hour day on set used to get me pumped up.”
“Not anymore, though?”
He frowns into his wineglass. Finally he says, “At some point, I guess I started to feel disconnected from that excitement. The Cody Jones role was supposed to bring that spark back ….” He trails off.
The fire pops. He turns toward the hearth and then stands abruptly. “I’m going to get more firewood.”
The fire’s fine. We don’t need more wood. But I let him escape the conversation.
After the door closes behind him, I check my phone. I have a text from his mom:
All set. I got a seat on the red-eye. I land in Burlington at 10 am tomorrow. Don’t tell Dasher. Let’s surprise him.
My thumbs fly:
Perfect. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Safe travels!
I grin, my heart full at the idea of bringing Dash and his mom together for a real Christmas celebration, even if it’ll be an early one. The door bursts open and cold air rushes in. I shove my phone into my pocket.
Dash hurries inside, his arms full of firewood, snowflakes dusting his dark hair and unfairly long eyelashes.
“It’s snowing!” He dumps the wood beside the hearth.
“It’s December in Vermont, Dash. It’s always snowing.”
“Not like this. Come see.” He pulls me to my feet and tosses my parka at me.
I put on the coat and my boots and follow him outside. He’s right; this isn’t regular snow. It’s the kind of snowfall you see in the movies. Fat flakes tumble from the sky. Falling rapidly, they blanket the ground in pristine white.
I bend down and scoop up a handful. I pack it loosely. “Have you ever had a snowball fight?”
“In Southern California? Uh, no.”
I lob my snowball gently. It hits his shoulder.
“I see how it is,” he says, dusting the snow from his shoulder and forming a snowball of his own. He throws it like it’s a football. It smacks me directly in the face, then explodes, sending snow cascading down my shoulder.
The cold stings my skin, and I stand there, stunned for a moment.
He runs over. “I’m so sorry. I was aiming for your shoulder, I swear. Are you okay?”
He reaches out and gently brushes the snow from my face. His fingers are warm on my frozen cheeks. His dark eyes search mine, worried. A cloud of warm air leaves his mouth each time he breathes. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my lips.
Too close.
I grab a handful of the snow from my coat sleeve and shove it down the back of his collar.
He yelps, and I’m already running, squealing, slipping in the snow as I race toward the cottage. His footsteps pound behind me, closer, closer—
I make it to the porch steps just as his arm wraps around my waist, spinning me around. We’re both laughing, both breathless, both covered in snow. His arm still encircles me. I press my palm against his chest and feel the rapid beat of his heart. Snow swirls around us.
The cold air is charged with electricity, possibility. Neither of us moves.
Finally, I shiver and pull away, heading back inside before I say or do something I can’t take back.
“Mind if I take a hot shower?” he rasps.
I don’t trust myself to talk, so I shake my head.
He heads into the bathroom, and I trade my wet clothes for cozy pajama bottoms and soft tee.
While he showers, I make the bread. I definitely do not think about him naked, just feet away, as I shape the dough into a round loaf, score it, and slide it into the preheated oven. Not at all.
He returns to the kitchen wearing dry clothes, his hair damp and his face flushed from the heat of the shower, just as the timer goes off. The bread is perfect, golden-brown and crusty. The soup is fragrant and ready. We ladle the soup into bowls, slice the bread, and refill our glasses.
We eat at the island.
“We made this,” Dash says, amazed. “And it’s good.”
“It really is.” I tear off a piece of bread and pop it into. “You’re a natural.”
“I had a good teacher.”
After we eat, we clean up together—him washing, me drying, moving around each other like dancers. By unspoken agreement we head back to the living room with the wine.
“Movie?” I suggest. “Miracle on 34th Street is on.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“How is that possible? It’s a classic.”
“Let’s do it.”
We settle on the couch. The flames in the fireplace dance, casting shadows on the wall. The drawn Roman shade cocoons us in privacy. I pull a warm blanket down from the back of the couch and drape it over us as the movie starts.
I don’t decide to lean against him. It just happens. One minute I’m sitting upright, cradling my wineglass, and the next, my head rests on his shoulder. Then, somehow, I’m tucked against his side, his arm around me, my ear pressed to his chest.
His hand traces idle circles on my shoulder. His heartbeat thuds in my ear. The movie plays.
I should say goodnight and go to the bedroom, I think hazily.
Instead, my heavy eyelids close over my eyes and I sigh contentedly.
I wake to movement. I’m being lifted by strong arms under me, nestled against warm skin.
I make a small sound of protest but don’t open my eyes.
“Shh,” Dash murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I relax against him as he carries me to the bedroom.
He places me gently on the bed and pulls the covers over me. I sink into the mattress, still half-asleep. The covers are soft underneath me. I hear him step back.
Take a risk.
I open my eyes and reach out to catch his hand. “Stay.”
He freezes. “Ivy—”
“Stay,” I repeat. “Please.”
“You’re sure?”
I pull back the covers beside me and move over to make room. “I’m sure.”
He joins me with a rustle of sheets and blankets and wraps his arm around my waist, tugging me close, my back against his chest. I lace my fingers through his where they rest on my stomach.
I murmur, “Goodnight.”
He presses his mouth to my ear. “Goodnight, Ivy.”
My breathing slows and I drift back to sleep without naming a single flower.