Page 7 of The Christmas Arrangement

I snort, and she turns her head to the side to eye me over her shoulder.

“Oh, hi. Could you lend me a hand?”

I don’t know the last time someone asked me for a favor. I look at her for a few seconds, as she bobbles the planter. She lowers her chin and stares at me, like she can’t believe I’m just standing there watching her struggle.

I snap out of it and jog toward her. “Sure, here.”

I ease the heavy pot out of her hands and she immediately grabs another, slightly smaller urn from the truck bed.

“Thanks. This way.”

She heads into the without another glance at me. It occurs to me that she has no idea who I am. This fact is oddly exciting. For at least a few minutes, I don’t have to be The Dash Pine. I can just be me. I trail her inside and catch my breath.

When Brody suggested this place for the big reveal of my fake romance, I had some doubts. More like, I thought he’d mixed up his gummies with the candy ones again. But I have to hand it to Quinn, the barn hits all the right notes. Globe lights drip from the rafters and fresh greenery curls around the supports. And there are flowers everywhere. I mean, everywhere.

I recognize roses, but that’s about it. I don’t know what the rest of these are but it’s like something out of a storybook.

“Wow.”

I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until the woman sets down the planter in her hand and turns to grin at me. “Right?”

Before I can respond, her green eyes go huge and her cheeks, already pink from the cold, turn bright red.

She gapes at me, then closes her eyes and mutters to herself, “Way to press Dash flipping Pine into manual labor, Ivy.”

The anonymity was nice while it lasted. But this pot is heavy, so I cut her freakout short. “Ivy, is it? Where do you want this thing?”

She snaps her eyes open and scurries toward me. “Here, give it to me. I’m so sorry, Mr. Pine. I didn’t?—”

“—I carried a horse in my last film. I can carry a plant. Where should I put it?”

She gestures to a spot next to equally enormous arrangement that she must’ve muscled inside by herself. I squat to lower the planter into position, wondering if she lifts weights.

By the time I straighten to standing, her stricken expression gives way to a knowing grin.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Ivy. It is Ivy, right?”

“Yes. Ivy Jolly, of Blooms by Ivy.”

I can’t help it, I cackle. “Ivy Jolly? Come on. That’s not your real name.”

She heaves a sigh and says in a bored tone, “Yes, it is. I’m one of the Jolly sisters—Holly, Ivy, and Merry. And whatever joke you’re about to make, I assure you, I’ve heard it before.”

“Those are some”—I pause to search for the least offensive descriptor—“festive names.”

Her grin returns with an impish twist. “You should know. “Isn’t Dash short for Dasher? As in the reindeer? And not to be a pedant, but in the movie, wasn’t it a newborn foal? And you didn’t really carry it so much as lift it briefly. Right?”

It’s surprising show of spirit for this small-town florist to bust my balls. But, truth be told, I like it. “Both fair points. In fact, want to know a secret?”

She nods.

I lower my voice and lean close to her. “They wouldn’t let me hold the real foal. It was a fifty-pound bag of flour and post-production special effects.”

It’s her turn to laugh. And, man, her laugh is a languid, mellifluous sound, like sweet honey flowing. I want to pour it over me. As soon as I have the thought, I shake my head—where did that image come from?

Oblivious to my deranged musings, she says, “Well, you were great in that movie even if it was a bag of flour that you rescued from the flood.”