Page 31 of The Christmas Arrangement

In a tee shirt and panties, it’s about a million degrees cooler. But I’m still too keyed-up to sleep. I roll over with my back to Dash and use my dad’s trick. He once told me that when he needs to try to fall asleep or distract himself, he lists off hotels in alphabetical order and rarely gets as far as the Mandarin Oriental before he falls asleep or forgets what’s bothering him.

I don’t know that many hotels, but I can list flowers with the best of them. Alstroemeria, begonia, chrysanthemum. Daffodil. English rose, freesia, gardenia. Hyacinth, iris, jasmine. I’m trying to think of a flower that starts with K, when my heavy eyelids close, my brain shuts off, and I drift to sleep.

Six hours later, my eyes pop open and I exclaim, “Kalmia!”

In response to my excited shout something warm moves against my bare stomach. I look down. Dash’s arm is wrapped around my waist, my shirt scrunched up. My back presses into his front and his nose nestles on my neck. We’re spooning.

What the frost? I scrabble upright. He rolls away with a sleepy sigh.

My gaze falls to the floor. Our pillow border is strewn around the bed. Bolsters and shams litter the floor.

Oh.

Beside me, Dash reaches his arms overhead and stretches languidly like a cat then rolls to back to face me with a half-awake smile. “What’s kalmia?”

“It’s a flower—commonly called mountain laurel. It’s usually white, pink, or red,” I mumble, mortified. I reach over the edge of the bed and pluck my sweatpants from the floor, then rustle into them under the covers.

He watches me for a moment, bemused, and then laughs. “Looks like our pillow defense system failed.”

He throws back the covers, and my mortification ratchets up to an eleven out of ten. Apparently I’m not the only one who got hot during the night. He’s shirtless. And when he stretches again, his core engages and his defined abs tighten. I squeeze my eyes shut as if there’s any chance I’ll be able to unsee his perfect six pack. Then I turn to the wall, open my eyes, and race into the bathroom.

By the time I’ve washed my face, brushed and flossed, and dragged a comb through my unruly hair, my rolling boil of embarrassment has dropped to a low simmer. I square my shoulders and reluctantly force myself to leave the bathroom.

I follow the smell of coffee into the kitchen, grateful and curious. Holly says you can tell a lot about a person by how they take their coffee. I wonder if Dash takes his black or with lots of cream and sugar.

When I step into the kitchen, he’s leaning against the counter, still shirtless, his sweatpants low on his hips. But I fixate on his drink. He’s sipping something bright green from a glass.

“Thanks for starting the coffee.”

He tips his glass at me in response and hands me a mug of coffee, steam rising from the surface.

“What is that?” I jerk my chin toward his beverage.

“An iced matcha wheatgrass latte.”

If that’s a latte, I’m Cindy Lou Who. “Are you being punished?”

He laughs. “You get used to the taste. Want a sip?”

“Pass.”

“How do you know you’re not missing out on something delicious?”

I side-eye the green stuff again. “I’m willing to take that risk. Where did you even get that?”

“I brought it with me. I wasn’t sure if I could find everything I needed here.”

I stir a spoonful of sugar into my coffee, raise the candy-cane striped mug to my lips, and savor my first swallow of hot, caffeinated goodness while I think. “Mountain Organics might have what you need. It’s a small grocery co-op on High Street. They have limited shelf space, but they’ll special order if you ask them to.”

“Cheers to Mountain Organics.” He tips his glass toward me.

I clink my mug against it, then blurt, “Are we going to talk about what happened last night?”

“What happened last night?”

Is he serious? “Didn’t you notice? We woke up spooning.”

“We were asleep.” He chugs the electric green concoction. “It’s not like we did it on purpose.”