Page 52 of The Christmas Arrangement
Something about it makes me want to call Mom. I pull out my phone, then stop. What would I even say? Hi, Mom. I’m having a fake relationship with a small-town florist but I think I’m falling for her for real. In fact, I want to spend Christmas in Vermont instead of taking the meetings Brody’s setting up.
Yeah, that’ll go over great.
We don’t have that kind of relationship. We never have. She’s my manager’s second-in-command, my logistics coordinator. She’s proud of my success because it justifies her sacrifices. She loves me and I love her. But we don’t do heart-to-hearts.
There’s nothing to tell her yet. Not really. Maybe after Christmas. Once I’ve figured out what this thing with Ivy actually is.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and wave to Griselda through the window of her fitness studio.
Chapter 20
Enter Rachel
Ivy
* * *
For the first part of my two-hour drive to Burlington, I call my sisters and arrange for Holly and Jack to take my room at the house Merry and I share, leaving Holly’s loft free for Dash’s mom. In exchange, they extract the details of my evening in with Dash. After they register their disappointment that all we did in bed was sleep, I end our conference call in a hurry.
I spend the rest of the drive rehearsing what I’ll say when I meet Rachel Pine. But when she spots my white coat and walks toward me in the baggage claim area, my mind goes blank. She’s taller than me, with Dash’s dark eyes, long lashes, and defined bones, and she looks too young to have a son in his twenties. She also looks unfairly put together and refreshed for someone who just stepped off an overnight flight.
“Ms. Pine. Rachel. I’m Ivy. How was your flight? Hi.”
She smiles indulgently at my babbling, then says, “Please call me Rachel. I’m so happy to meet you, Ivy. Can I give you a hug? I’m a hugger.”
She swoops in for an embrace without waiting for an answer. The quick hug calms my nerves and slows my racing thoughts. I feel competent to form words by the time she steps back, still squeezing my shoulders, and studies me.
“You’re even prettier than you look in pictures.”
“Oh, you saw those?” I hope she didn’t catch wind of the feline drama.
“I spent some time scrolling when I waiting to depart LAX. You two have certainly caught the public’s eye.”
I blush, because of course I do. Then I reach for her carry-on. “Did you check a bag?”
“No. I travel light.”
She follows me to the parking garage, asking polite questions about the drive, the weather, Vermont in December. Safe topics. But once we’re on the highway heading south, the real questions start.
“So.” She adjusts her seatbelt and turns to face me. “Tell me about all about Mistletoe Mountain.”
I do. I tell her about the town square, the quirky shops, the Christmas traditions that run all month. The way everyone knows everyone. The suspended coffee program at the Snowflake Cafe. The banned books bingo at the library. And I tell her all about my family’s inn.
“It sounds charming,” she says. “Very different from Los Angeles.”
“It is.”
“You’ve been?”
“A few times. My cousin Rosemary lives out there.”
“Tell me how you two met.”
It’s an innocent question. Of course, she wants to know how we met. So I tell her about the photo shoot, the flowers, how he helped me move a heavy planter. I don’t mention Lia Campbell or the fake dating arrangement. That part doesn’t matter anymore.
She’s quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is different. Careful. “You seem to have become quite serious, quite fast. He never mentioned you, and suddenly you’re calling me and inviting me to visit.”
“I don’t know how serious we are,” I admit. “But he told me you and he never had a big Christmas celebration. So when he decided to stay and experience Christmas in Mistletoe Mountain, I wanted to give him—give both of you—a family Christmas.”