Page 62 of The Christmas Arrangement

She’s right. I know she’s right. I left without saying goodbye because I was scared. Because watching him with his mother made me feel like an outsider, and instead of staying and claiming my place, I disappeared.

“Plus,” Holly adds, “Jack and I are not spending another night on your lumpy mattress so Rachel can stay in the cottage. If she’s not sleeping here, we are.”

I laugh. “There it is. The real reason you’re here.”

“I’m a multitasker. I can support you emotionally and simultaneously reclaim my space.”

“Not to mention,” Merry chimes in, “she refused my very reasonable request that she pay twenty dollars a night in rent. She and Jack are terrible houseguests.”

I giggle and Holly scoffs.

Merry stands and brushes crumbs from her lap onto Holly’s spotless beige carpet. “Go to the flower shop. Do a few hours of work. Then go pick Dash up and take him to the contest. You need to be seen in public together, anyway.”

I look at my sisters with their fierce loyalty and practical wisdom and the tightness in my chest loosens slightly.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For coming over. For the intervention.”

“Intervention sounds harsh. Let’s call it a pep talk,” Merry suggests.

“A very Jolly pep talk,” Holly agrees. “With the ultimate goal of getting your butt out of my loft.”

Chapter 24

I Met a Girl

Dash

* * *

Twenty-four hours ago, I was waking up with Ivy in my arms, and now I’m engaged in a battle of wills with my mother. Seems impossible. But, it’s happening.

The inciting incident? A slice of toasted bread smothered in sugar plum preserves.

“Mmm,” Mom moans, dabbing away a glob of jam on her lip. “This bread is delicious. You’ll have to take me to the bakery where you got it before we leave town.”

I grin over my coffee mug. “Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I made it.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I—we baked it. Ivy and I made the dough, let it rise, then baked it in the oven.” I hear the pride in my voice, and, for a moment, I almost feel silly. But frost it. I am proud. Why not own it?

Mom drops the toast on the kitchen island like it’s a black widow spider and not a delicious breakfast treat. “You made it?”

“Yes.”

“How long did that take?” She crosses her arms over the front of her ice blue silk pajama top.

“All in, four hours. Maybe a bit longer.”

“Four hours? Honey, you don’t have four hours to devote to making a basic staple that you can pick up at literally any market—or, if you insist, have Rowan bake for you.”

“I’m not traveling with my chef, Mom. And I did have time to make it. There was a lot of hands-off time while the dough rose.” Why am I defending myself for baking bread? This is wild.

She sips her iced matcha and shakes her head. “Dasher, what are you trying to prove?”