Page 38 of The Christmas Arrangement

I do know. It’s exactly what I was thinking.

“What would it be like to have that? That solid foundation and the certainty that someone has your back no matter what?” He laughs, but it sounds hollow. “Sorry. That got heavy.”

“No, I get it.” The seed of an idea sprouts in my mind: I could call his mom, invite her here to celebrate the holiday with us, and give him the connection he’s craving. I almost suggest it. But it feels too big, too presumptuous. Instead, I just say, “I’m glad you were there tonight.”

“Me too.”

We reach the cottage, and Dash beats me to the keypad. He opens the door, and I step inside and stop short just inside the door.

A Roman shade covers the big window behind the couch. It’s gorgeous—creamy fabric with a subtle damask pattern, clean lines, clearly expensive.

“Where did this come from?”

Dash rubs the back of his neck. “I ordered it this morning. There’s an interior design place in the valley that does rush orders. They delivered and installed it while we were at the tree farm.”

I turn to stare at him. “You had a custom window treatment installed in one day?”

“I know you wanted privacy. Boundaries. After Shane’s stunt …” he trails off, then starts over. “I heard you, Ivy. I want you to feel safe when you’re with me.”

My throat tightens. He spent money—probably a lot of money. Made phone calls. Coordinated with strangers. All to give me something I asked for.

“If you don’t like it, they can take it down easily,” he continues quickly. “They promised they’d repair any holes or damage when they remove it. The cottage will be exactly how it was before.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say thickly.

“Yeah?” He looks relieved. “I wanted to make sure it was nice, not just functional. The designer texted me a bunch of options, and this one seemed like it would fit the cottage’s style.”

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” I mean it. But it feels off, wrong, like an itchy sweater or a shirt that shrunk in the wash.

“You take the bed tonight,” he says.

“Dash—”

“I insist. I already put fresh sheets on and everything.”

“But—”

“Please let me do this for you, after what you did for me today.”

He’s being thoughtful. Respectful. Giving me exactly what I asked for—space, boundaries, safety.

So why does my chest feel tight? Why do I want to tell him he’s got it all wrong?

“Okay,” I hear myself say as if someone else is talking. “Thank you.”

He grins. “Good. I’m going to grab a pillow and claim the couch. Sweet dreams of mountain laurel.”

“Good night.”

He disappears into the bedroom and I follow him in, then veer into the bathroom and get ready for bed. Then I run the water until I hear him return to the living room and settle onto the couch. The sounds of him getting comfortable—rustling blankets, adjusting pillows—feel very far away.

I walk into the bedroom, close the door, and turn out the light. The bed is perfectly made, pillows fluffed, covers turned down. He even left a glass of water on the nightstand and switched on the bedside lamp.

I sink onto the edge of the mattress.

Everyone I love is taking risks. Making leaps. Choosing courage over caution.

Dash listened to me. Heard what I said I wanted. Gave it to me.