Page 12 of The Christmas Arrangement
“Give us a kiss!” the guy from Entertainment Bytes shouts, which sets off a chant of kiss, kiss, kiss.
Ivy shrinks back.
I pull her close and wrap my arm around her. Thankfully, we’d anticipated this part. While Luna did Ivy’s hair and makeup, I’d explained to her that there are ways to pull off a stage kiss without actually making out. Although I’d offered to show her how, she was worried she’d mess it up when the time came.
For this out-of-the blue relationship to be remotely believable, we have to sell the kiss. We both know it.
I turn her to face me and tug her toward me until her hip bones hit my thighs. Then I wrap one arm around her waist and cup her cheek with my free hand.
She stretches on to her toes and then snakes her hands around my neck, tips her chin up, and parts her lips. She’s giving me a flashing neon sign that she’s good with this.
Still, I double-check. “Sure this is okay?” I whisper, dipping my head.
My mouth so close to hers that her breath is a feather on my lips when she exhales her answer.
“I’m sure.”
I move my hand from her hip to her hair and crush my mouth against hers. She leans into me and rakes her fingers through my hair. The flashbulbs are popping off like fireworks. Brody’s gonna love it.
Despite the outward appearances of passion, it’s a gentle, almost chaste kiss inside our cocoon so I’m surprised when I feel the rapid thrum of her pulse in her throat. Then I feel something much, much worse. And the way her hip bones are pressing into me, I’m afraid she’ll feel it through my jeans.
I break contact and pull back, horrified. I have never, not once, gotten aroused on a set. Of course, it has to happen now.
Ivy goes stiff in my arms. I don’t blame her. She must think I’m a complete pervert. Time to wrap this up before she freaks out in front of the media.
I clear my throat and play my role. “Thanks for coming out. And while Ivy wants me to invite you all to stick around for tonight’s Christmas tree lighting in the town square, I’m going to ask you to respect our privacy. I don’t get much time off, and I’m looking forward to using it to make memories with my girl.”
I take her hand and lead her to the side door. As arranged, Quinn pulls it open as we approach.
Once we’re alone, I turn to her. “I’m sorry.”
She bites her lip and drops her gaze from mine. “Forget about it.” Her tone is flat.
She turns and crosses the field to the red pickup with the antlers decorating the grille. I want to run after her, make her stop so I can explain, convince her that I’m not an oversexed monster. But the temperature’s dropped and neither one of us is wearing a coat. She’s shivering, and the wind cuts through my cashmere sweater. I trudge behind her, wishing I could kick my own butt.
By the time I get to the truck, she’s in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, and staring straight ahead out the window. I slide onto the bench seat next to her as she turns the key that she left dangling from the ignition.
“The heat’ll kick on in a few minutes,” she says in that same lifeless voice.
I open my mouth, then snap my jaw closed. Anything I say now is unlikely to make things better and almost certain to make an awkward situation even worse.
She punches the radio button and Christmas music fills the silence between us as she puts the truck into gear and we bump down the gravel hill to the road.
Chapter 7
Faux Fur and Real Talk
Ivy
* * *
I focus on the road like my life depends on it. My shredded dignity certainly does. One second, I’m kissing Dash, the next he’s pulling away from me like I’m poison ivy. I’m so humiliated I don’t even laugh at my own corny pun.
My stupidity compounds my embarrassment. Even though my brain knew—knows—that the kiss wasn’t real, my body and my heart clearly didn’t get the memo. As Dash pulled me toward him, cupped my face, and covered my mouth with his, colors whirled behind my eyes, my legs went liquid, and my breath hitched in my chest. I melted into him, forgetting the crowd, the cameras, our arrangement, all of it. I was lost in his warmth, his scent—juniper and cinnamon and something I couldn’t place, something uniquely Dash—and the soft pressure of his mouth. I couldn’t get close enough, pressing my body against his, winding my fingers through his hair, yearning to consume him.
He could tell. It’s not like I hid it. And it obviously disgusts him. The memory of the way he extracted himself from me as if I were toxic stings all over again, and my cheeks blaze. I round my shoulders and curl inward as I pilot the car down the hill and turn onto Lake Road.
I used to do this growing up when my boisterous family got too loud or a good-natured debate between Holly and Merry skated dangerously close to a heated fight. I would pull myself inward, making myself as small as possible in an attempt to retreat from the chaos to the safety of my shell. Mom called me her sneaky snail. Tears sting my eyes at the memory of my mom, and I take a greedy gulp of air.