Page 44 of The Christmas Arrangement

“Why would you do this?” I ask. “Help me?”

She looks up from her phone, genuine surprise on her face. “We take care of our own here.”

“But I’m not—” I start, then stop.

“Not what? Not from here?” She waves the idea away. “You’re with Ivy. That’s enough.”

Under the table, Ivy finds my hand with hers and squeezes.

This is not how things work in Hollywood. I know better than anyone. In Hollywood, when you screw up, people distance themselves. Your agent stops returning calls. Your friends suddenly have other plans. Everyone waits to see if you’ll survive before they decide whether to acknowledge they know you.

But here, in this quirky Christmas town, they stand together and problem solve. They care about each other. And, it seems, me.

My voice is rough with emotion when I say, “Let’s do it. When?”

“Day after tomorrow. That gives us time to promote it and for you to get started on a course of allergy medication.” Griselda’s already texting someone. “I’ll coordinate with the rescue and Titus. You just show up and be charming.”

“I can do that,” I promise. I’d better do it.

My phone buzzes. I glance down at the display. Brody’s calling. No doubt he’s seen the picture of Dash Pine, feline hater, and has some thoughts he’d like to share. I silence it.

For the first time since Shane snapped his photo, I can breathe.

“Thank you,” I say to Griselda.

Griselda doesn’t look up from her phone. “You’re welcome. You’re dismissed.”

Ivy squeezes the woman’s arm. “You’re the best, Grizz. Love you.”

She keeps her eyes glued to the screen but a small smile creeps over her face.

We settle up with Rudy for the congealed poutine fries and walk out into the late afternoon. The sun has begun to dip low, painting the snow pink and gold.

“So this is how Mistletoe Mountain operates, huh?”

“Call it the Mistletoe Mountain magic.”

But this is more than that. This is Ivy’s community. She’s woven into the fabric of this place—knows everyone’s names, remembers their stories, shows up when they need her. And by standing next to her, I’m being woven in, too.

The photographers’ cameras click as they walk backward up the hill in front of us. But I’m not performing. I’m just walking alongside Ivy. Where I belong.

Chapter 18

Simmering

Ivy

* * *

Leave it to Griselda to enter from stage left with a viable solution to the cat disaster. Her timing, as always, is spot on. My shoulders unclench, and walking next to me, Dash stops checking his phone every seven seconds and stows it in his pocket on Do Not Disturb.

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks, hands still shoved in his coat pockets.

I can’t. I need to go back to the flower shop. I should check on tomorrow’s orders, respond to the seventeen texts from Merry, and prepare the supplies for my wreath-making workshop.

So why do I hear myself say, “Wanna cook instead?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Cook? Like, actual cooking?”