Page 140 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

I laugh. “You already paid enough when you dropped that twenty for a few bites of food and a sip of tea.”

“Don’t forget the entertainment,” she said, her brow rising.

“How could I?” I ask with a grin, staring into her hazel eyes. I could look at Mary all day and never get tired of it. But I’m back in dangerous territory, because she’s looking at me like she wants to kiss me. And damn, if she did, I’m not sure I could walk away.

Tell her. You asked for this meeting so you could tell her.

“Mary,” I say, more nervous than I’ve been in a very long time. “Mary, there was a reason for me asking to meet with you.”

Some of the light in her eyes dims. “Of course. What did you want to discuss?”

“My past.”

She still looks confused. “You mean your nephew?”

I take a breath and shove my hands in my pockets again. “Kind of.” Then I shake my head. “But not really. I want to talk to you aboutwhyhe’s no longer in my life.”

Her lips part. “Were you in an accident together? Is that how he died?”

It’s my turn to be confused. “What?”

She thinks Ben’s dead?

The cashier calls out my number, and I pull my hands out of my pockets in frustration. I’m the one who started this conversation—I can’t stop it now. But first I grab the baskets of food plus the two bottles of water I ordered and gesture for her to sit at an open picnic table.

Her skirt makes it difficult for her to sit on the bench, so she perches on the end. I sit opposite her and place her basket and water on the table before getting my own lunch situated.

“Ben’s not dead, Mary,” I say.

“Ben? Is that your nephew?”

“Yeah.” I shove a hand through my hair. “He’s alive, but I haven’t seen him in six years.”

She frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“My sister cut me out of her life, and that meant losing Ben too,” I say, holding her gaze.

“Why would she do that?” she asks in a whisper, catching on that whatever I’m about to tell her is bad.

“Because I went to prison for three years,” I say. “She refused to communicate with me while I was there, and when I got out, she told me I was dead to her. So I moved to Asheville.”

Her face has paled, making her eyes even more vivid. They look green now—a deep moss green. “You were in prison?” She swallows. “Was it for a white-collar crime? One of those cushy federal prisons?”

“No.” Part of me wants to lie, but she’ll find out, because I know the first thing she’ll do after she walks away from me ispull up my file. Considering that she’s an attorney, she’ll likely have access to documents the general public doesn’t. “I served at Davidson Correctional Center for felony theft.” Forcing myself to hold her gaze, I add, “I stole a car. But North Carolina doesn’t have grand theft auto on their statutes.”

She gets to her feet in one fluid movement. While embarrassment might make her clumsy, it would appear anger gives her grace.

“You’re a convicted felon, and you were withmy son?” Her voice rises, drawing the attention of the people around us.

I stay seated. To stand would make me taller than her, and the last thing I want is for her to feel threatened or intimidated. “I’m not dangerous, Mary. I paid my dues.”

“You paid your dues,” she shouts, “and then you decided to volunteer to work with young children?”

Several men nearby turn their attention to our conversation.

I could protest. I could argue that stealing a car when I was twenty years old doesn’t make me a child molester, but Mary has only just begun to work herself up.

She points her finger at me. “You stay away from my son.”

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