Page 51 of The Christmas Arrangement

When she pulls back, she’s grinning.

“Is that a yes?” I tease.

“That’s a heck yeah.”

She’s still smiling when she settles back against the pillows, reaching for her coffee again. But her hand is shaking slightly.

“Through Christmas,” she says, trying for casual. “That’s ... what, three weeks from now?”

“Give or take.”

“And you’ll stay here? At the cottage?”

“If that’s okay.” I pause. “Your dad told Brody it was available all month, so I think I can extend the reservation. You can stay here with me. But if you need to get back to your regular life?—”

“No.” She cuts me off. “I mean, I can stay here longer.”

My chest expands. “Okay then.”

We grin at each other like idiots until she clears her throat.

“We should probably get moving. I need to shower, and you have your meeting.”

“Right. Adulting.”

She slides out of bed and heads to the bathroom, taking her mug with her. A moment later, I hear the shower running. I flop back against the pillows, grab my phone, and thumb out a text to Brody letting him know the new plan.

By eight, we’re both showered and dressed. When we leave the cottage together, the photographers are waiting, cameras ready, along the walkway that leads to the street. We’re heading in different directions, so they’re perfectly positioned to capture our goodbye kiss at the corner. We make it a good one—for us, and for them.

I watch her walk away before turning the opposite way.

I’m halfway to Maple Twist Fitness when I realize I’m humming. Actually humming. Like a cartoon character about to break into song. I should be embarrassed. Instead, I can’t stop smiling.

A couple of the photographers trail behind me. I wonder if they can hear me humming.

Outside Mountain Organics, a woman with a toddler on her hip does a double-take. “You’re Dash Pine!”

“Guilty,” I say, expecting the usual photo request.

Instead she says, “I’m Samara. My daughter Evie helps Ivy with deliveries sometimes.” She waves the little boy’s mittened hand, then shifts him to her other hip. “And this is Jalen.”

“Hi, Jalen.”

“Well, welcome to Mistletoe Mountain. And thanks for doing the Santa Paws thing. The Stillwaters do so much good for those rescued animals. I’m excited for the fundraiser.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Samara.”

She grins and continues past me. No photo or autograph request, no fawning.

At the corner, I pause to let a group of elementary school kids cross. They’re in a line, holding a jingle-bell-festooned length of rope. One kid—maybe seven old—tugs her teacher’s sleeve and points at me, whispering.

The teacher glances over, smiles, and keeps walking.

No interruption. No scene.

In Los Angeles, where you can’t swing a cat without hitting a celebrity (although I would never, I’ve learned my lesson where cats are concerned), I’ve been ambushed everywhere, including my dentist’s office while my teeth were actively being cleaned.

Here, though, even though people recognize me, they treat me like Ivy’s boyfriend. A part of the town. I haven’t been treated like a regular person in over a decade, since before I blew up as Vlad. To me, these ordinary interactions feel extraordinary.