Page 135 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

Without saying a word, she extends her hand when I reach her. I automatically take it, thankful it’s a socially recognized way to touch her, because Iwantto touch her. Her grip is firm, not that I’d expect anything less.

She pulls her hand away and returns to her seat, and I suppress a grin when she gestures for me to join her, as though she’s the one who called me here, rather than the other way around. But then, Mary strikes me as a woman who likes to be in charge.

I wonder, again, what she’d be like if she dropped that control in the bedroom.

Even though she is everything I never wanted in a woman—stiff, formal, tightly wound—I see something lurking beneath the surface that intrigues me. It’s as if all her control is just a front, a curtain that could be pulled back to reveal the real Mary.

I’d like to see her.

Which makes this conversation about my record so much harder.

Except she drops a bombshell before I can roll out any of the lines I’ve been practicing in my head.

“You sensed I have an…inappropriate attraction to you. You wanted to let me down easy, but I assure you, there’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of controlling myself.”

I’m so stunned, the only thing I can do is start laughing, which is clearly not the reaction she was expecting.

“You think this is a joke?” she chokes out and starts sliding out of her seat.

The last thing I want is for her to think I’m making fun of her, so I reach over and place my hand on hers. “Mary. No. Let me explain.”

She stills, but for some reason I don’t pull my hand away. I like the way hers feels beneath mine, soft and small yet strong.

“I’m flattered.”

Her face flushes.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Mary,” I say, my voice huskier than I’d intended, because her “inappropriate” attraction must be heavy on her mind if she blurted that out the moment she saw me. The idea that she’s been fantasizing about me doing God-knows-what to her slides under my skin. I like the notion of it a little too much. While I’d suspected she appreciated what she saw when she met me yesterday, I figured it was the same as walking past a Lamborghini. Sure, it catches your eye, but it’snot practical.I’mnot practical for a woman like Mary O’Shea—especially since I’m more like a decade-old Dodge Ram truck than an expensive sports car—even before she considers my ex-con status.

I swallow, then force myself to say, “That’s not why I asked you here.”

Her face flushes a deeper pink, and suddenly the cool, collected woman I’ve known looks like a deer caught in the lights of an oncoming semi. I hate that I put that look on her face, and I’m thankful we’re on opposite sides of the table, because otherwise I’d be tempted to do something stupid, like take her in my arms and tell her she has nothing to apologize for. That I’m attracted to her too.

She continues to stare at me, clearly caught between fight or flight, and flight wins out. She makes a mad scramble to get out of the seat, but her foot gets caught on something under the table. Giving her foot a hard jerk, she inadvertently rattles the vase full of crystals at the far end of the table, spilling several onto the wood surface.

Her eyes gape at it, her cheeks stained with humiliation.

“Mary,” I say, holding her gaze. “Please stay.”

I still need to tell her about my past, but it’s easy to convince myself that it can—and should—wait. That she’s anxious, and I’m the one who caused her anxiety. That I need to soothe her before throwing her for another loop.

Which is all true, but there’s another certainty buried beneath it. I like that she doesn’t look at me in disgust. That I feel like a human being in her presence, and not a mass of soiled garbage.

Unfortunately, that’s about to change, and I’m not eager for it to.

She’s still on the edge of her seat, peering at me as though trying to decide what to do, when an older woman approachesthe edge of our table. She’s wearing a cream-colored dress decorated in a pattern of pie slices, something that would have delighted Mrs. Rosa. Her hair is a bright yellow—like the color of sweet corn, not blond—and she looks to be in her late seventies.

“Mary, my dear!” she exclaims, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “Tina said you were here.” Then her gaze turns to me, her smile stretching wider. “And who’s this fine young man?”

Mary’s mouth opens and closes, and she looks like she wants to crawl under the table and gnaw off her stuck foot so she can flee.

I lift my hand from hers and turn to face the newcomer.

“Hi. I’m Jace Hagan,” I say, extending my hand, “Mary’s son Aidan’s buddy.” It sounds ridiculous, just like I meant it to. I was hoping it would get Mary to relax, if only slightly, but her back is ramrod straight.

A sage look fills the older woman’s eyes. “Some people might think you’re too old to be friends with a six-year-old boy, but I believe there are no limitations to friendship.” Then she takes my hand. “I’m Dottie Hendrickson. I’ve known Mary since she was captain of the debate team in high school.”

I’m not surprised to hear that Mary was captain of her high school’s debate team, but I hold back a smile because she looks even more embarrassed than she did ten seconds ago.

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