Page 155 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

Her cheeks instantly turn redder, and her gaze averts to the bare tree as if she can’t bring herself to look at me anymore. Godhelp me, but I can’t stop thinking about helping her with those needs.

“Thank you again for coming,” she says, then sucks in a horrified breath. “For comingover. To my house.”

I nearly respond withas opposed to cominginyour house, but I bite my tongue, because while I love to see Mary flustered and breathless, I’d prefer to see her breathless beneath me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JACE

That’s my cue to get the fuck out before I do something I’ll regret. I need to find a way to excuse myself, only Aidan wants me to stay for hot cocoa.

I drop my gaze to the stack of throws, telling myself to think about something else. Like cleaning out Bingo’s litter box.

“I can’t figure out what to do with those,” Mary says, noticing where my gaze has shifted. She walks over and squats next to the pile, straightening up a nonexistent mess. “Aidan likes having them here, but I don’t like leaving them draped over the back of the sofa.” She stands and shrugs, looking embarrassed again. “I know. First-world problems.”

So, she’s a neat freak, not that I’m surprised.

I hear the bathroom door open, and Aidan walks into the room. “Can we have our hot chocolate out here, Mom?”

Mary glances from her son to me, then back to her son. “Why don’t we sit at the table in the kitchen? It will be more comfortable there.”

“But I want Jace to see our tree,” he says.

“I saw it while we were playing our game,” I say. “And I think drinking our hot chocolate in the kitchen is a great idea. Then I can see a different part of your house.”

“You can see my room too,” he says, then turns and walks back down the hall. “Come on, Jace.”

“You don’t have to follow him,” Mary says, apologetically.

“I don’t mind.” I smile to reassure her, then trail after him. Mary tags along after me.

But we don’t find Aidan in his room. He’s standing inside the bathroom. “This is the bathroom. It doesn’t stink, because I didn’t poop.”

The room has pale cream walls, a dinosaur shower curtain, and a beige tile floor. Crisp white towels hang from the towel rod. I give the air a good sniff. “You’re right. No stink.”

Aidan gives me a look that suggests he thinks I’m crazy for trying to sniff poop. Then he reaches behind the shower curtain and pulls out a bottle. “This is my new shampoo. Mom got it after we moved to Asheville.”

He peers at the bottle as though he’s offended, although I suspect his grudge has more to do with the move than the hair product.

“I heard it’s good to change your shampoo every year or so,” I volunteer. “It’s better for your hair.”

His sour expression softens.

“I bet you could find something good to say about it,” I say. “Actually, let’s go big. Tell me three good things about your new shampoo.”

He hesitates. “It’s the kind that doesn’t hurt your eyes.”

“That’s important. Tell me two more.”

“It smells good.” He pauses, twisting up his mouth in thought. “And it makes lots of bubbles.”

“There you go,” I say. “The change wasn’t so bad.”

He puts the bottle back without comment, then walks past me, heading down the hall a few feet and into a bedroom.

I follow, not surprised to see the beige walls are covered with posters of dinosaurs.

“This wall is just for dinosaurs with armored bodies,” he says, pointing to the wall featuring posters of a variety of dinosaurs with scales and plates. Of course, the majority are devoted to ankylosauruses.

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