Page 29 of The Christmas Arrangement

“It’s a dive bar,” she explains. Then she turns to her sister. “Who’s we?”

“Quinn, Delph, Titus, and me.”

“Holly and Jack aren’t going?”

Merry rolls her eyes. “They begged off. Jack says she’s tired.”

Ivy purses her lips, and some silent sibling communication passes between them. After a moment, Merry says, “Exactly.”

“If you want to go along, have at it,” I tell Ivy. “I’m going to take pity on the press and go back to the cottage.”

“Come again?” her sister asks.

“They can’t call it a night until I do.”

Merry wrinkles her nose. “Eww, so they’re hanging around hoping you show your butt again?”

“Pretty much—literally and metaphorical.” I shrug. “It’s their job.”

Every celebrity who bitterly dismisses the media as parasites is either a hypocrite or confused about the nature of the symbiotic relationship in question. It’s not parasitic, it’s obligate mutualistic. We need each other. Without us, there’s no story. Without them, there’s no attention.

Ivy gives me a look I can’t read and says, “I’m going to turn in, too. It’ll look bad if I go out partying without my boyfriend on his first night in town.”

She has a point. Even Merry nods in agreement, although she makes sure to call us lame before she hugs Ivy and flits off.

Back at our table, I ask, “Is there anybody you want to say goodbye to?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

I hold her coat for her and she wriggles into it. A pair of photographers start snapping pictures. I can see the headline now, “Dashing Dash Shows Chivalry Survives.” If there’s one thing entertainment reporters love, it’s alliteration.

I grab her hand and lead her to the cluster of photographers. “Hey, we’re calling it a night. You can feel free to follow us back to the cottage and stand around freezing your butts off. Or you can clock out and have a free beer. I recommend the Frosty lager.”

The bearded guy, whose name is Raj or Ron, something short that start with an R, grabs his camera bag from the floor. “Sounds good to me.”

A stringer for a gossip website wants one last shot. ”Come on, Dash, Ivy, give us one more kiss," he wheedles.

I’m not about to subject her—or myself—to another kiss when I’ve barely recovered from the last one.

“We’re tired, folks.” I turn to leave but Ivy tugs on my arm.

When I look back at her, she points to the tent’s roof. “We’re under the mistletoe.”

Sure enough, a full spring of the stuff hangs from the canopy by a red velvet ribbon. It’s directly over our heads. I search her face and she gives me the tiniest nod.

Okay then, we’re doing this.

“What are the odds?” I crack.

“The odds are excellent,” she informs me. “It hangs all over town all month long.”

Raj/Ron grabs his bag and takes out the camera he just put away. Once they’re ready to capture the shot, I turn her in my arms so that the twinkling lights play over her face. She tips her head back and I swoop in for the kiss.

Her lips are unyielding this time. I get it. I cup her cheeks and she stretches up to wind her fingers through my hair. I smile against her mouth. She’s a natural. She instinctively understands the kiss can be chaste so long as the rest of our body language tells a different story.

I concentrate on the flashbulbs, the music, the crowd. Anything but the woman in my arms.

After a beat, we break apart.