Page 45 of The Christmas Arrangement

“Mountain Organics is right there.” I point across the square to the small storefront with its handwritten chalkboard signs visible through the window. “We could make soup. Bread. Something warm.”

He studies my face for a moment, deliberating. Then he grins. “Okay. But I’m warning you—my kitchen skills peak at scrambling eggs. I definitely can’t make bread.”

“I’ll bake the bread. Think you can handle chopping vegetables?”

“With sufficient direction, it shouldn’t be any harder than rescuing a bag of flour from rising waters.”

As we cross the square, snow crunching underfoot, I’m smiling so wide my face hurts. Or maybe that’s frostbite.

Mountain Organics is busy, as usual. I grab a basket from the stack by the door and we navigate the narrow aisles lined with wooden bins and glass jars, everything labeled in neat handwriting. Behind the counter, Marcus Chen waves at us while bagging Marley Jacobs’ groceries.

I toss produce into the basket—carrots, celery, onions, potatoes. I skip the herbs; Dad keeps the cottage stocked with spices. Dash trails behind me.

“They have it,” he says, holding up a small tin of matcha powder.

“I told you we’re not completely backward.”

“I never said backward. I said charming.” He adds the tin to our basket. “And maybe a little stuck in a snow globe.”

“Fair.”

At the register, Marcus rings us up while pretending not to stare at Dash. “Making dinner together? That’s nice.”

Dash slides his credit card across the counter. “First time for everything.”

“Ivy’s a good teacher.” Marcus bags our items. “She taught my daughter how to arrange flowers last summer. Very patient, and she has a sneaky sense of humor, quiet as she is.”

“I’ve noticed,” Dash says warmly.

Flustered, I redirect their attention. “Caitlyn’s a quick study. Do you want to get Dash’s autograph for her? Or a picture?”

“For her? How about for me?” Marcus laughs.

Dash waves him around the counter and I snap a handful of shots with Marcus’ phone. Maybe I should add photographer to my resume. The thought makes me snicker, and it hits me that we haven’t seen the photographers since before Rudy’s.

I mention this to Dash after we leave the warmth of the market.

He nods. “They’re probably stoking the fires of the #DashVsCats drama by reposting old shots of me behaving less than perfectly and updating the stories about us. The internet moves fast; they have to milk the story while they can.”

His matter-of-fact delivery doesn’t fool me. He’s still beating himself up.

“An allergy isn’t a character flaw,” I remind him. “And once Griselda announces the Santa Paws fundraiser, you’ll be the good guy again.”

“I know. Everything’s cyclical in the entertainment business. Sometimes, though, I feel like a hamster on a wheel.”

He’s the hottest hamster I’ve ever seen, but I keep this thought to myself. We walk the rest of the way to the cottage in comfortable silence, swinging our bags of groceries between us.

Inside the cottage, I kick off my boots and put the bags down in the kitchen while Dash shrugs out of his coat.

He pulls out his phone. “Music?”

“Sure. Nothing too Christmassy, please. It’s a long month of holiday music around here.”

Acoustic coffeehouse music fills the cottage.

“How’s this?”

“Perfect.”