Page 154 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“I’ll go first,” Aidan says as he picks up a tile and turns it over. A straight line runs through it, and I remember enough from his instructions to figure out it’s a path.

Ah. We’re building a path to the place marked “end.” He sets his card on the square next to “start.”

I pick up a tile and start to build on the path. Race to the Treasure is a cooperative game—we both win, or the ogre wins by blocking us from reaching the end.

“I like your house,” I say, glancing around the living room. The furniture has a modern, contemporary vibe, but throw pillows and curtains make it feel softer, as well as a neatly folded stack of small, knitted throws on the floor next to the sofa. There are photos displayed of Aidan and Mary, Maisie, and another woman who must be their third sister.

There’s a bare-looking pine tree in the corner, totally undecorated, and I realize it must be the tree that Mary bought after the tree lot salesman broke the ugly truth about Santa.

I have an uncharacteristic urge to find the guy and punch him in the jaw.

Aidan picks up a tile—a picture of an ogre—and sets it on the side of the board. Four more, and we’re toast. “It’s smaller than our house in Charlotte. Mom says it can be smaller since it’s justthe two of us, but I told her we need room for Dad for when he comes back from his business trip. Even if they’re not going to be married anymore, he’ll want to see me.”

Another stab to my heart, this time for him. It’s definitely not my place to tell him his father isn’t coming back, but it’s hard to hear him talk about it.

His face scrunches as he stares at the board with a faraway look. “Maybe Mom should get Dad an adult present. Like her magic wand.”

Midway through turning over an ogre tile, I sputter out laughter and then cover it up with a cough. I don’t want him to misunderstand and think I’m laughingathim. Besides, the thought of Mary buying that asshole Glenn a vibrator isn’t all that funny on second thought. I don’t want to imagine her using a vibrator with, or while thinking about, another man.Especiallyhim.

I have no right to such thoughts, but the way she looks at me when she lets her guard down…

I want her, more than I’ve wanted a woman in I don’t know how long, but I can’t act on it.

Can I?

I’m not sure how to respond to Aidan’s idea, but he seems oblivious to my internal strife. He looks up at me with an earnestness that trips my heart, until he asks, “What kind of magic do you think it does?”

All sorts of answers come to mind—none appropriate—so I say, “I think it’s one of the mysteries you get the answers to when you’re an adult. Like tax law.”

He considers my answer for a moment before nodding, then promptly changes the topic to his displeasure that his art class was cancelled for the assembly.

“Change is hard,” I say, “but life is full of change.”

“Like moving here,” he says, staring down at the game board.

“Exactly. Some changes are good. You got to move closer to your aunts.”

“And Uncle Cal and Uncle Jack,” he says. “And Baby Mabel, but she cries a lot.”

“Babies do that,” I say as we continue playing. “They don’t have words, so that’s how they tell us they’re hungry or thirsty or don’t feel good.” I give him a grin. “Or that they have poopy diapers.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Poop is not funny. It stinks and has germs that can make you sick. You have to sing the alphabet song while you wash your hands after you poop.”

I nod. “Yeah. You’re right.”

We keep playing until we win. Aidan is pleased and wants to play again, but Mary walks out from the kitchen just then, still looking sheepish, and says, “Your hot chocolate is ready.”

Aidan hops up and announces he has to go to the bathroom. “Not poopy,” he says matter-of-factly, “but I still need to sing the song while I wash my hands.”

“Then you’ll be ready for hot chocolate,” I say.

He heads down the hall, and I hear a door close.

My attention is completely focused on Mary—on her burning cheeks, and the short hair that refuses to stay perfectly tucked behind her ears no matter how many times she tries, and her hazel eyes gleaming with embarrassment but also lust. I take a step closer. I keep seeing that vibrator in her hand and imagining all the things I would like to do to her with it.

“Uh…” she stammers.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty or embarrassed,” I say in a low voice. “You’re a beautiful woman, Mary O’Shea, and you have needs.”

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