Page 67 of The Christmas Arrangement

On Dasher and Dancer and Heartbreak

Ivy

* * *

In a stroke of miserable luck, Rachel and I win the contest and have to paste on even more frozen smiles as we accept our prize—an intricate Croquembouche tree handmade by Merry, the cream puffs held in place with spun sugar. We beg off the interview request, citing our need to get ready for the Santa Paws event tonight.

I drive Rachel back to the loft on autopilot, then drop the puff pastry tower off in Noelle and Dad’s kitchen. I know the guests will gush over Merry’s artistry. Someone should enjoy it, and I have no appetite.

My mood doesn’t improve when I return to an empty cottage. Dash has come and gone. The still-damp towel hanging on towel bar in the bathroom and the distinct scent of cinnamon, juniper, and faint musk are dead-giveaways. I blow out a breath and pull out my phone to text him. I nearly drop it when I see I have a text from him. He must’ve sent it while I was driving back from Quinn’s:

Sorry I missed the contest. Saw you and Mom knocked it out of the park! I headed to the Cat Cafe to do a last-minute walk-through. Your dad left you something to wear tonight. It’s in the closet. See you soon.

My dad? This I have to see. I might let Luna dress me, but I draw the line at Nick Jolly as a stylist.

I open the walk-in closet and spot the dress instantly. I cover my mouth with my hand. My parents played Mr. and Mrs. Claus twice a year. In July, my mom wore a vintage cocktail dress, which she left to Noelle. In December, she wore this.

I reach out to touch the sleeve. It’s another vintage number. Red velvet with long sleeves. It’s off the shoulder, and the top, cuffs, and hemline are all trimmed with white faux fur. Mom’s favorite thing about it was the pockets. Noelle wore it the first Christmas for all of ten minutes before declaring that perimenopause is no time to wear velvet and fur. So it’s been tucked away ever since. My heart lifts, and then breaks. I’ve dreamed of wearing this since I was a little girl. I never thought I’d do it while playing missus to a Santa I have to send away.

I change into the dress and pair it with the black stiletto boots that have somehow managed to grow on me. I arrange my hair in an updo with face-framing curls, apply a cherry red lip stain and coat my lashes with waterproof mascara. I give my reflection marching orders: “Keep it together long enough to raise some money for the animal rescue and prove that Dash isn’t a felinophobe. Convince him he should go back to LA. Then you can fall apart.”

I pick up the strand of chunky cultured pearls I found nestled in one of the dress pockets and fasten the choker around my neck. Then I re-read the note that accompanied it:

Mom would be so proud of you. I love you, Dad

I fold it into careful quarters and tuck it back into the pocket.

Then I square my shoulder, lift my chin, and walk out the door.

When I step inside the cat cafe, there’s a literal record scratch.

“Sorry!” Nebula calls. “Dang, Ivy. You look hot.”

I flush. “Thank you, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing for Mrs. Claus.”

Dash crosses the room and takes my hands, holding them out while he admires me. “Mr. Claus begs to differ.” His smile warms my belly. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”

He’s not wearing one of the innumerable Santa suits the Mistletoe Mountain Santa posse swap back and forth. Instead, he’s wearing a tuxedo. A deep red, velvet tux jacket with black lapels, slim-cut black pants, and a black bow tie.

His eyes crinkle with pleasure. “Yeah?”

“You’re the sexiest Santa I’ve ever seen,” I say. It’s the unvarnished truth.

He spins me in a circle and my dress skirt flares out. Then he reels me into his chest for a moment before dipping me, his strong hand splayed across my back for support. My lips part on their own accord as I gaze up at him. Some distant part of my brain registers the flashbulbs and clicking of shutters as he lowers his mouth to mine. His breath is hot. My pulse is racing.

Loud applause and several wolf whistles pull me out of our private world. The noise breaks the spell on Dash, too, and he lifts me to standing.

Then he bows and smoothly steps into his role. “Welcome to the first ever Santa Paws benefit. Titus’ Teahouse and Cat Cafe is proud to partner with Stillwater Animal Rescue to make the holiday special for Mistletoe Mountains furry friends.”

As he greets the crowd, I spot Rachel. She’s sitting at a table with Griselda and Marley. She’s not looking at her son. She’s staring directly at me. I hold her gaze for a moment then turn to look for my family. When I find them, Dad gives me a wide smile. Noelle holds up heart hands, and Jack gives me a dorky thumbs up. My sisters raise their tea cups in my direction, pinky fingers extended like they’re a pair of Edwardian ladies. I stifle a giggle.

The next several hours are a blur of auction bids, heartfelt stories about rescued animals, many, many finger sandwiches and petit fours, and too many cups of tea to count. Cats prowl around the party, getting nibbles of salmon mousse and dollops of nondairy whipped cream from delighted guests. At one point, Quinn flashes a flask and I hold out my cup for a discrete splash of whiskey. Holly passes, and Merry merrily informs us she’s got her own flask.

DJ Nebula stops the music, and Titus, Henry Stillwater, and Dash walk to the front of the room. Flanked by Titus and Henry and holding a friendly tabby cat named Dancer, Dash announces that the event has raised eighteen thousand dollars for the animal sanctuary and rescue and resulted in eleven adoptions. At the burst of excited applause, Dancer jerks in Dash’s arms. I hold my breath, willing him not to drop the cat. Dash cradles the startled tabby like a baby and strokes its face. I exhale. I’m thrilled to see all of the assembled photographers have captured the moment. Mission accomplished.

Actually, this event has accomplished multiple missions—Titus’ cafe is going to be all over social media, the Stillwaters have raised a lot of money and found almost a dozen cats and dogs new homes, and Dash has transformed from an allergic cat dodger to a cat lover. I allow myself a swell of gratitude and satisfaction before I ruin it all by remembering I have a mission of my own to carry out.