Page 24 of When Ivy Met Mr. Holiday
“Ivy.” I drew her hand up and kissed it. “You think I give a damn about some cellulite? Or anyone who does? You’re gorgeous. That’s not lip service.”
Ivy took a moment and several deep breaths, searching my face for any trace of a lie. She would find nothing there.
“Jack, this is a mess. I’m a mess.”
“A hot mess.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I’m serious. And I promise—this is all going to work out. Trust me.”
“Says the man who told Sienna we were a couple.”
“A guy panics one time and suddenly it’s a lifelong crime,” I teased, then switched gears. I needed Ivy off the breakup train—fast.
“So, are we going to have some fun today or what? We’re about to hand out enough cookies to feed an army and play games with octogenarians while wearing matching Christmas sweaters. Tell me that’s not peak holiday entertainment.”
“Fine, I’ll try to have fun, but only because I want you to love the magic of Christmas. This isn’t me forgiving you yet or agreeing to any award shows. I just don’t want to wear the Grinch hat of shame.”
“I don’t know. I think you would look cute in it.”
She shook her head at me.
I turned into the parking lot of the retirement community, which, like everything else in Aspen Lake, resembled a swanky ski lodge. I pulled into a space beside her parents’ Land Rover. Before turning off the ignition, I let myself take a moment just to look at her. The shine in her bright eyes, the loose strands of hair framing her heart-shaped face, the way her lips parted as if she were on the edge of telling me off or maybe she wanted to confess something. Every little thing about her wrecked me.
“What?” She caught me staring.
“I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you in my life.”
Her lips ticked up into an almost smile. “I would say the feeling is mutual, but I’m not sure anymore,” she teased.
But I feared part of her wasn’t teasing, and I needed to fix that, stat.
Chapter Seven
“I find it easier to claim that I am friends with a monkey rather than with a man.”
Shahla Khan
Ivy
JackandIwalkedinto the retirement community hand in hand, playing the perfect couple. Admittedly, his steady grip calmed my nerves some. Even though I wouldn’t have had those nerves if it weren’t for him. It was a vicious cycle.
The smell of cinnamon, antiseptic, and cleaning supplies hung in the air of the two-story foyer decorated with several Christmas trees, and one of the residentsplayed holiday carols on the grand piano. It was Christmas at the Summit Pines Retirement Home. And for a moment, I felt a slice of peace. I tried to remind myself of the true meaning of Christmas, and it had nothing to do with fake dating or what was going on online.
My niece, Emma, bolted away from her parents as soon as she saw us walk into the lobby and put her arms out—not to me, but to Jack.
Jack surprised me and scooped her right up like he was a pro at it, even though I’d never seen him hold a child in real life. On the big screen, sure. He’d played a single dad of three a couple years ago in a heart-wrenching drama. That year, the Academy nominated him for an Oscar. It was a travesty that he didn’t win if you asked me.
Emma snuggled right into him, and Jack instinctively stroked her blonde curly hair. Whoa, my heart skipped a few beats. He was in fullJackmode today. And Jack with a child was lethal to my already-fragile defenses. My biological clock’s alarm went off like it was saying,Ding, ding, ding—we have found the father of your future children.
Apparently, my biological clock hadn’t gotten the memo that Jack and I were just friends. I could understand why it was confused—all our touching was sending mixed signals. Even I was getting turned around.
“Wow,” I said way too breathily as I gaped at my best friend being absolutely adorable with my niece. It was too attractive for my own good. “I didn’t know you were so good with kids.”
Jack looked far too pleased. “I’m glad I can still surprise you.”
Oh, he’d been surprising me this entire trip—and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. So, naturally, I blurted out something ridiculous.
