Page 49 of The Christmas Arrangement

I don’t decide to lean against him. It just happens. One minute I’m sitting upright, cradling my wineglass, and the next, my head rests on his shoulder. Then, somehow, I’m tucked against his side, his arm around me, my ear pressed to his chest.

His hand traces idle circles on my shoulder. His heartbeat thuds in my ear. The movie plays.

I should say goodnight and go to the bedroom, I think hazily.

Instead, my heavy eyelids close over my eyes and I sigh contentedly.

I wake to movement. I’m being lifted by strong arms under me, nestled against warm skin.

I make a small sound of protest but don’t open my eyes.

“Shh,” Dash murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

I relax against him as he carries me to the bedroom.

He places me gently on the bed and pulls the covers over me. I sink into the mattress, still half-asleep. The covers are soft underneath me. I hear him step back.

Take a risk.

I open my eyes and reach out to catch his hand. “Stay.”

He freezes. “Ivy?—”

“Stay,” I repeat. “Please.”

“You’re sure?”

I pull back the covers beside me and move over to make room. “I’m sure.”

He joins me with a rustle of sheets and blankets and wraps his arm around my waist, tugging me close, my back against his chest. I lace my fingers through his where they rest on my stomach.

I murmur, “Goodnight.”

He presses his mouth to my ear. “Goodnight, Ivy.”

My breathing slows and I drift back to sleep without naming a single flower.

Chapter 19

Staying

Dash

* * *

I wake to the weight of Ivy’s leg thrown over mine, her hand splayed on my chest, her breath warm against my neck. The first time she woke up snuggled next to me, she practically launched herself across the room. This morning, she’s draped over me like I’m her personal body pillow. It’s a role I’d happily play.

Pale winter light filters through the sheer curtains. The cottage is quiet except for her steady breathing and the occasional creak of the old building settling. I should get up—make coffee, check my phone, do something productive.

Instead, I smooth her vanilla-scented hair back from her face and memorize the constellation of freckles on her cheeks, the rise and fall of her ribs with her breath, the small sleepy sound she makes when I shift slightly.

She stirs, sighs, and curls her fingers into the fabric of my shirt.

“Morning,” I murmur.

She goes still for a moment. I hold my breath for that split second of reorienting while she remembers where she is and who she’s with. Then she relaxes and burrows closer.

“Too early,” she mumbles.