Chapter 19
Staying
Dash
I wake to the weight of Ivy’s leg thrown over mine, her hand splayed on my chest, her breath warm against my neck.
The first time she woke up snuggled next to me, she practically launched herself across the room.
This morning, she’s draped over me like I’m her personal body pillow. It’s a role I’d happily play.
Pale winter light filters through the sheer curtains. The cottage is quiet except for her steady breathing and the occasional creak of the old building settling. I should get up—make coffee, check my phone, do something productive.
Instead, I smooth her vanilla-scented hair back from her face and memorize the constellation of freckles on her cheeks, the rise and fall of her ribs with her breath, the small sleepy sound she makes when I shift slightly.
She stirs, sighs, and curls her fingers into the fabric of my shirt.
“Morning,” I murmur.
She goes still for a moment. I hold my breath for that split second of reorienting while she remembers where she is and who she’s with. Then she relaxes and burrows closer.
“Too early,” she mumbles.
I smile at the ceiling. “Want me to get up and make coffee?”
“No.” She clamps her hand down on my chest if she could pin me in place. “Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise. “Except the kitchen.”
She tilts her head up, blinking sleep-glazed eyes at me, her hair a wild tangle. “Coffee in bed?”
“You’ve got it. Or I could make you one of my matcha abominations if you want. Someone has to save you from your sugar addiction.”
“My sugar addiction is what makes me delightful.” She gives me a playful push. “Coffee in bed sounds perfect. As long as it’s actual coffee.”
“Deal.”
I ease out from under her carefully and hurry to the kitchen, the floor cold under my bare feet.
When I return with two mugs—hers with sugar, mine black—she’s propped up against the pillows and her hair is in a messy knot on the top of her head.
I hand her the candy-cane striped mug and sit on the edge of the bed.
She takes a sip and sighs happily. Then she turns her green eyes my way. “What’s on your agenda today?”
“I’m meeting Griselda at her fitness studio. She’s giving me a lift to our nine o’clock meeting with Titus and Henry at the animal rescue. We’re going to finalize the Santa Paws plans and make sure I know which animals to avoid if I want my face to remain normal-sized.”
She laughs. “All of them, probably.”
“I’ll take the meds. I’ll be fine.” I bump her shoulder with mine. “What about you?”
“I need to talk to my sisters. Then I have some errands to run.” She shifts her gaze away from mine.
“Errands?”
“Exciting stuff. Post office. Bank. You know. Adulting.”
She’s not telling me the whole truth. But I don’t push. If she wants to tell me, she will.
“When should we meet up?”
“Let’s plan to meet at the library Bookmas party this afternoon. And after that, there’s Christmas karaoke at the Tipsy Turnip.”
“Sure, that all sounds like fun.”
“It will be,” she promises. “And both events will be packed, so the photographers will be able to get some great shots.”
I put my mug down on the nightstand and turn to her. “That’s not why I want to go with you.”
She blinks at me. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m staying. Or, at least, I want to stay.”
She goes very still. “What?”
“After the week is up. I want to stay in Mistletoe Mountain.” I hold her gaze. “I want to experience Christmas here. With you. If that’s okay.”
Her eyes go wide and impossibly green. For a terrible moment, she says nothing.
Then she sets her mug next to mine with deliberate care, turns to face me fully, and crawls into my lap.
My mouth finds hers and we kiss. Not a staged kiss. Not a kiss for the cameras. A kiss just for us. Her hands cradle my face. Mine are tangled in her hair.
When she pulls back, she’s grinning.
“Is that a yes?” I tease.
“That’s a heck yeah.”
She’s still smiling when she settles back against the pillows, reaching for her coffee again. But her hand is shaking slightly.
“Through Christmas,” she says, trying for casual. “That’s ... what, three weeks from now?”
“Give or take.”
“And you’ll stay here? At the cottage?”
“If that’s okay.” I pause. “Your dad told Brody it was available all month, so I think I can extend the reservation. You can stay here with me. But if you need to get back to your regular life—”
“No.” She cuts me off. “I mean, I can stay here longer.”
My chest expands. “Okay then.”
We grin at each other like idiots until she clears her throat.
“We should probably get moving. I need to shower, and you have your meeting.”
“Right. Adulting.”
She slides out of bed and heads to the bathroom, taking her mug with her. A moment later, I hear the shower running. I flop back against the pillows, grab my phone, and thumb out a text to Brody letting him know the new plan.
By eight, we’re both showered and dressed.
When we leave the cottage together, the photographers are waiting, cameras ready, along the walkway that leads to the street.
We’re heading in different directions, so they’re perfectly positioned to capture our goodbye kiss at the corner.
We make it a good one—for us, and for them.
I watch her walk away before turning the opposite way.
I’m halfway to Maple Twist Fitness when I realize I’m humming. Actually humming. Like a cartoon character about to break into song. I should be embarrassed. Instead, I can’t stop smiling.
A couple of the photographers trail behind me. I wonder if they can hear me humming.
Outside Mountain Organics, a woman with a toddler on her hip does a double-take. “You’re Dash Pine!”
“Guilty,” I say, expecting the usual photo request.
Instead she says, “I’m Samara. My daughter Evie helps Ivy with deliveries sometimes.” She waves the little boy’s mittened hand, then shifts him to her other hip. “And this is Jalen.”
“Hi, Jalen.”
“Well, welcome to Mistletoe Mountain. And thanks for doing the Santa Paws thing. The Stillwaters do so much good for those rescued animals. I’m excited for the fundraiser.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Samara.”
She grins and continues past me. No photo or autograph request, no fawning.
At the corner, I pause to let a group of elementary school kids cross. They’re in a line, holding a jingle-bell-festooned length of rope. One kid—maybe seven old—tugs her teacher’s sleeve and points at me, whispering.
The teacher glances over, smiles, and keeps walking.
No interruption. No scene.
In Los Angeles, where you can’t swing a cat without hitting a celebrity (although I would never, I’ve learned my lesson where cats are concerned), I’ve been ambushed everywhere, including my dentist’s office while my teeth were actively being cleaned.
Here, though, even though people recognize me, they treat me like Ivy’s boyfriend. A part of the town. I haven’t been treated like a regular person in over a decade, since before I blew up as Vlad. To me, these ordinary interactions feel extraordinary.
Something about it makes me want to call Mom.
I pull out my phone, then stop. What would I even say?
Hi, Mom. I’m having a fake relationship with a small-town florist but I think I’m falling for her for real.
In fact, I want to spend Christmas in Vermont instead of taking the meetings Brody’s setting up.
Yeah, that’ll go over great.
We don’t have that kind of relationship. We never have. She’s my manager’s second-in-command, my logistics coordinator. She’s proud of my success because it justifies her sacrifices. She loves me and I love her. But we don’t do heart-to-hearts.
There’s nothing to tell her yet. Not really. Maybe after Christmas. Once I’ve figured out what this thing with Ivy actually is.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and wave to Griselda through the window of her fitness studio.