Page 14 of The Christmas Arrangement

“Please. I want to make sure I heard you correctly in the car.”

“I enjoyed the kiss, and it was clear you didn’t. I know it wasn’t real, though. So you don’t have to worry.” I say the words woodenly.

A smile crosses his lips, but before I can take offense at the implicit mockery, he reaches for the edges of my blanket and pulls me a foot closer to him. Then he lowers his chin and locks eyes with me.

“That’s not why I pulled away, Ivy.” His voice is thick.

I squint at him. “Really?”

“Really.” After a beat he adds, “One thing you need to know about me is I don’t lie. Not even when I probably should.”

“Then why?”

His chest lifts like he’s taking a deep breath. “Because I was turned on, and I was afraid you’d realize and think I’m a perv.”

“Wait? What?”

“I got aroused. I didn’t expect it. That doesn’t happen when I’m acting.”

“Never?”

“Never,” he confirms.

“Not even on Vampire Quarterback when Vlad and Poppy get caught in the rain and?—”

“Especially not then. The actress who played Poppy smelled like cured meat.”

A laugh explodes from somewhere deep in my belly. It’s a big ball of amusement, relief, and wonder. The fact that Dash enjoyed the kiss as much as I did doesn’t change anything about our situation, but it makes me feel worlds better.

“Okay. I guess it’s a bonus that we don’t disgust each other, but …,” I trail off, unsure of how to say we have to keep it professional for both our sakes.

“But real feelings are a complication neither of us can afford. We’ll save the displays of affection for the public.”

I exhale. “Exactly.”

He reaches out and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “This week just got a lot harder, though. Pun intended.”

I should step back; I know I should. We just agreed to boundaries. But I don't move.

Chapter 8

Meet the Jollys

Dash

* * *

Ivy slows the truck to a crawl in front of a stately mansion. The Inn at Mistletoe Mountain’s wide front porch is swathed in greens and twinkling lights. A dusting of snow covers the roof. Evergreen wreaths hang from all the windows and two larger wreaths covered in flowers hang from the front doors, which are guarded by a pair of six-foot-tall nutcracker soldiers.

“Wow.” It’s a clumsy, inadequate response to the emotion the inn stirs up.

She smiles. “I know. Even after all these , seeing it decorated for the holidays warms me from the inside out.”

To my surprise, I know what she means. All I can do is repeat “wow” like a dope.

Then she says, “If it’s okay with you, I’ll add your large urns from the photoshoot to the porch.”

I tear my attention away from the house to blink at her. “What?”