Page 42 of The Christmas Arrangement
I try to laugh it off. “I’m obviously allergic. That’s not a crime.” But even as I say it, I know Shane’s going to sell the photo multiple times, and I’m already imagining the headlines. “Dash the Dog Trashes Cats” or “Bad Boy Dash Pine Can’t Even Be Nice to Kittens” or something worse than anything I can come up with.
“We should go,” Ivy says quietly.
Titus looks stricken, and I feel like I’ve ruined his opening, which makes the whole mess that much worse. I mumble an apology and stumble outside, where the cold air hits my face like salvation. I can breathe again. But a boulder of dread sits in my stomach.
Chapter 17
The G.O.A.T.
Ivy
* * *
I’ve committed to doing something brave today, and I’m not about to let this cat situation derail me. So I pilot Dash down the hill to Rudy’s Roadhouse on the edge of town, plotting my next moves. Rudy’s is an after-midnight kind of place, and it’s never busy during the day. By the time we’ve walked the length of town, his face is almost back to normal and he’s stopped sneezing.
I push open the door and usher him inside. As expected, the bar is deserted. And as always, it smells like French fries and draft beer. I don’t see a waiter anywhere, so I wave to the bartender and we seat ourselves, peanut shells crunching under our feet as we slide into a sticky booth. The walls are covered in vintage Mistletoe Mountain photos—the town square in the 1950s, the ski lodge being built, a summer parade with everyone in period costume.
The jukebox plays something twangy and mournful. Appropriate.
Rudy himself comes out from the back to take our order. Dash stares down at his phone, most likely watching the photo go live in real time, so I order for both of us. I keep it simple: two glasses of water and an order of poutine.
Rudy takes the laminated menu and leaves. Dash is still scrolling. His jaw gets tighter with each swipe.
“Comments?” I ask, although I don’t really want to know.
“Mixed. Some people are calling it out as unfair. Others are ...” he trails off, but I can fill in the blank.
Others are gleeful. The mighty Dash Pine has fallen. Again. My heart aches for him. This is the exact spiral he came here to avoid.
“Will you be okay if I hit the ladies’ room?”
He finally looks up, distracted. “What? Sure.”
“You should wash your hands, too.”
He gives me a blank expression. “Why?”
“Because you’re obviously allergic to cat dander.” I drop this truth bomb on him, slide out from the booth, and beeline to the restrooms before I lose my nerve.
Inside the ladies’ room, my heart pounds as I pull out my phone and tap in the digits I scribbled on my arm when Dash recited them for Autumn. I lean against the wall and listen to Rachel Pine’s phone ring on the other end, silently practicing what I’ll say.
“This is Rachel Pine.” She answers her phone in business-like manner, the way Holly does.
“Hi, Ms. Pine. My name is Ivy Jolly. I'm ... I'm with Dash.”
“Has something happened to him? He is okay?”
Oh, Kris Kingle. She thinks he’s hurt.
I hurry to reassure her. “He’s fine! Better than fine. He’s great. I'm calling because he’s spending some time with me and my family in Mistletoe Mountain, and I thought you might like to join us for part of the holiday month.”
There’s a long, silence. Just as I’m about to ask if she’s still there, she speaks.
“Dasher asked you to call?”
I chew on my lip. “Well, no. He doesn't know I’m calling. But he mentioned that you and he never really had a chance to celebrate Christmas together, and if there’s one thing this town does well, it’s celebrate.”
Another pause. Then she says, “Where is this town of yours?”