Page 32 of The Christmas Arrangement

I consider this. He’s right, of course. But it still feels vaguely wrong. “Still …”

“Still, what?”

I fight the urge to tell him never mind. Instead I say, “I need clearly delineated lines. I understand that what we do in public isn’t real. But”—I take a breath—“I’m not built for a no-strings fling. We have to maintain boundaries.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he rakes his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. He’s silent for what feels like hours. I drink my coffee and try not to jump out of my skin.

Finally he says, “Of course. We’ll get a curtain for the living room today.”

His tone is curt, and I’m confused. Is he upset?

But in the next instant, he grins. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

I must have imagined it. “Today we’re going to White Pines.”

“What’s White Pines?”

“It’s a Christmas tree farm in the valley. Every year, the day after the Christmas tree lighting, we go to White Pines Farm and cut down two trees.”

“Why two?”

“We get a giant one for the foyer of the inn. We invite guests to help decorate it all month long. And then we pick out a more reasonably sized tree for the family living quarters. We’ll decorate that one tonight, just us.”

He frowns. “I’ll come along to the tree farm, but I don’t think I should join you to decorate. It sounds like a family activity.”

“Jack will be there,” I counter.

“As far as I know he’s your sister’s actual boyfriend. You just said we need to have boundaries.” He blows out a frustrated breath.

“I did say that,” I concede. Then I place the mug on the island and put a hand on his bare arm. “I don’t know what we are exactly, but I’d like to be friends. It’s the holidays, and I won’t let a friend miss out on the celebration.”

He opens his mouth and I raise my free hand like a crossing guard. “Before you say you can’t miss what you never had, that’s not true. You’ve been missing something special. Not this year. Decorating the tree is fun. Noelle’s going to make Negronis since we missed them last night. We’ll eat too many cookies, tell stories, and trim the tree.”

He softens his shoulders as if he might cave, so I move in for the kill.

“Tell you what. If you try tree decorating, I’ll try an iced matcha wheatgrass latte the next time you make one. Then we’ll both find out what we’ve been missing. Deal?”

He eyes me. “Really?”

“Really,” I lie. I'll find a way to back out later. What’s he going to do, undecorate the tree tomorrow when I don’t drink it?

“Then we have a deal.”

I beam at him. “Perfect.”

He smiles back, then pads across the room and reaches into the refrigerator. When he turns around, he’s holding a blender full of the green stuff.

He grabs a glass, fills it with ice, and pours the abomination into it.

“Thanks,” I say weakly as he hands it to me. I sniff it cautiously. It smells like grass.

“Bottom’s up.”

I scowl at him and put the glass to my lips. Then, I silently chant the rhyme my mom used to say to get me my sisters and me to swallow medicine when we were little—Over the lips, past the gums; look out stomach, here it comes!—and take the world’s smallest sip. In the least surprising development of the day, it also tastes like lawn clippings.

Dash is smirking at me. “What’s the verdict?”

I put on a snooty tone, swirling the liquid in my glass while I say, “Very grass-forward with undertones of dirt and hay and a vegetal finish.”