Page 47 of The Christmas Arrangement

“A bit.” I bump his hip with mine, surprising us both. “But you’re doing great. Look at your perfect dice.”

He works his way through the vegetables—more carrots, celery, potatoes. Dash gets faster and more confident. I sauté the aromatics in an enamel Dutch oven while he continues chopping. Before long, the kitchen fills with the sweet scent of caramelizing onions and garlic.

“Brody called this afternoon,” Dash says suddenly, the knife stilling.

“Oh? About the cat situation?”

“No. He called with a job offer.” He doesn’t look at me and returns to dicing potatoes with careful precision.

“Congratulations.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

I sip my wine and wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. So I don’t push.

“If you don’t cook, do you order takeout every night? Or go out to eat?”

He gives me a sheepish look. “I have a chef.”

Of course he has a personal chef. Somehow, I managed to forget briefly that he’s not a regular person. He’s rich. He’s famous. He’s Dash Pine.

“Vegetables are done,” he announces.

I dump them into the pot, add the vegetable stock, seasonings, and a generous splash of wine. I cover the pot and leave the soup to simmer.

“More waiting,” I tell him.

I wash the dishes and wipe down the counters while he lights a fire. I carry our wineglasses into the living room and we claim opposite ends of the couch. The soup simmers. The bread bakes. The fire crackles. Quiet domesticity with the sexiest man alive—literally.

“I’ve never sat around waiting for bread to bake. It’s relaxing.”

“It’s not a regular hobby for me either,” I tell him. “Even since I opened Blooms, I’ve been working like a Wall Street finance bro. Always hustling, pulling all-nighters. I slept at the shop a few times.”

“You’re smiling about it, though,” he observes.

“I love what I do,” I say simply.

“I get it. It’s how I feel—felt—about acting. An eighteen-hour day on set used to get me pumped up.”

“Not anymore, though?”

He frowns into his wineglass. Finally he says, “At some point, I guess I started to feel disconnected from that excitement. The Cody Jones role was supposed to bring that spark back ….” He trails off.

The fire pops. He turns toward the hearth and then stands abruptly. “I’m going to get more firewood.”

The fire’s fine. We don’t need more wood. But I let him escape the conversation.

After the door closes behind him, I check my phone. I have a text from his mom:

All set. I got a seat on the red-eye. I land in Burlington at 10 am tomorrow. Don’t tell Dasher. Let’s surprise him.

My thumbs fly:

Perfect. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Safe travels!

I grin, my heart full at the idea of bringing Dash and his mom together for a real Christmas celebration, even if it’ll be an early one. The door bursts open and cold air rushes in. I shove my phone into my pocket.

Dash hurries inside, his arms full of firewood, snowflakes dusting his dark hair and unfairly long eyelashes.