Page 28 of The Christmas Arrangement

My voice flattens as I force out, “I’ve never met them.”

“Dash, I’m so sorry.” She traces a slow circle on my chest with her palm, like she’s soothing a baby.

“Don’t be,” I grit out. “I can’t miss them. I never knew them.”

“Mmm.” She catches her lip between her teeth as she weighs her next question. “Your dad didn’t—wasn’t involved?”

“I don’t know who my father is.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t understand. Your mother never told you his name?”

“No.”

“What does it say on your birth certificate?”

“Father unknown.”

“Is he?”

“Unknown? Not to her. But she’s adamant that there’s no need to know anything about him. He chose not to have anything to do with us.”

Her voice wobbles. “Dash?—”

We’re no longer dancing, just standing stock still in the middle of a crowded dance floor in a crowded tent with hundreds of pairs of curious eyes trained on us. I lower my voice, “I’d really rather not talk about this. Not here, not now.”

She frowns and stiffens in my arms. “Okay, I’m sorry. But ….”

I wait, but she doesn’t continue. “But what?” I finally prompt her.

“You said that you never lie to your mother.”

“That’s right.”

She stretches up onto her toes and presses her cool hands against my burning face. “But you’re not completely honest with her either. You haven’t told her that her decision isn’t fair to you. You haven’t told her that you’re hurt, that you deserve to know who your father is, at a minimum.”

My jaw tightens as the words hit like a gut punch. It’s the raw truth, plain and clear. And it hurts like hell.

Maybe that’s why I lower my mouth to her, fierce with need. Or maybe it was inevitable all along. Either way, I push the words from my mind as I probe her welcoming mouth with my tongue, tasting the sweetness of her. This isn’t for the cameras, this is for me.

When I regain control of myself, the first thing I notice is the stillness. There’s no music. DJ Nebula is gawking at us, along with the rest of town and the press. I catch her eye and she hurriedly queues up a banger. The world starts turning again. Conversations resume.

Ivy and I are still entwined. I ease her hands from my shoulders and she steps back quickly. Her chest heaves. I’ve managed to destroy her updo. Strawberry blonde waves fall over her face like a curtain. Her lips are swollen. Her head is down, so I can’t see her face, but the smart money says she’s flushed.

Before I can say a word, she pushes her hair out of her eyes and looks up. “Do you think they got what they needed?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I give her a blank look. “Who?”

“The photographers?” She frowns, confused by my confusion.

Ice water flows through my veins, dousing the heat we created. Right. The press.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

She turns her mouth up into a small smile.

Merry shimmies across the tent in time to the music and plants herself in front of us. “We’re bouncing to Rudy’s. You guys in?”

I glance at Ivy.