Page 8 of The Christmas Arrangement
“You saw the movie?”
She blinks. “Sure.”
I steel myself, waiting for the obligatory comment about my butt.
Instead she says, “I loved it. You gave a raw and vulnerable performance.”
“You thought my performance was raw and vulnerable?” I can’t keep the satisfaction out of my voice as I repeat her words.
She throws me a questioning look. “Didn’t I just say that?”
“Actors,” I tell her. “We’re needy.”
She smiles again, a wide, genuine smile that crinkles her eyes. “ You were fantastic. I believed you as Cody Jones.” The smile falters. “I’m sorry everyone seems to be focusing on your ass … ets instead of your artistry.”
The tightness that’s been a constant in my chest since the disastrous interview loosens. When was the last time someone looked at me and saw anything other than Bubble Booty or Vlad the Vampire QB? It’s been . The next thought that pops into my head is wild, but I say it anyway.
“Would you take off your coat?” I gesture at the puffy white parka that covers her from head to mid-calf.
Her face, framed by the white faux fur that trims her hood, setting off those big green eyes and cold-pinked cheeks splashed with freckles, turns an even deeper red as she blushes furiously.
She furrows her brow. “Take it off?”
“Please.” I smile reassuringly, and, I hope, sanely.
She manages a very small, very uncertain return smile.
I’m moderately surprised to find myself holding my breath while I wait for her to decide.
After an interminable moment, she pushes her hood down from her head to reveal a mass of long strawberry blonde hair pinned up on the top of her head in a braided knot. Then she unzips the heavy coat and wriggles out of it. It pools on the wood planks at her feet.
I exhale and study her. She’s nothing like the gorgeous, glamorous Lia Campbell. But, she’s pretty. No. Not pretty, lovely. It’s not a word in my regular vocabulary. But it’s what pops to mind. Ivy Jolly is lovely.
She’s slight and fair. And with her light red hair and bright green eyes she’s my physical opposite. A striking contrast to my olive skin, jet black hair, dark eyes, and a hard-earned muscular frame. A romance between me and a small-town florist might hold even more appeal for my public than would one between me and a fellow movie star—even Lia.
The more I think about it, the better it seems. This could work. And, unlike the lifeless business arrangement Lia and I negotiated through our managers, it already feels strangely real.
“I’d like to date you,” I blurt.
Chapter 5
Redder than Rudolph’s Nose
Ivy
Two and half hours earlier
* * *
“Date me?” I repeat, certain I’ve misheard.
My nervous system is going haywire at the moment. I mean, I made a movie star carry a planter, insulted his name and his physical prowess, and taken off my coat at his request. I’m blushing like it’s my job, my heart is flip-flopping in my chest, and I can’t stop staring at him. The thick, jet-black hair, the liquid brown eyes, the chiseled cheekbones. Dash Pine, in the flesh, is standing less than three feet away from me. There’s an excellent chance he said something else.
I study him closer, noting the dark smudges under his famous eyes and a distinct greenish pallor. Maybe he said I have the flu.
I instinctively step back. The last thing I need it to get sick during the holiday season.
But he says, “Yes. Will you date me?”