Page 159 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

I should shut the fuck up, but I can’t seem to help myself. “With your creamy skin, you’d look sexy as sin in something black. Maybe lace.” My gaze drops to her chest, then back up to her face. “You’re a beautiful, sexy woman, Mary O’Shea. Glenn is a fucking asshole for ever letting you think otherwise.”

Then, before I can do something I’ll regret, like push her up against the wall and consume her like she’s a lavish meal after a three-day fast, I head to the kitchen, looking for our six-year-old chaperone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MARY

I’m used to things running through my head on repeat. Usually, they’re unpleasant things. This one is different.

You’re a beautiful, sexy woman, Mary O’Shea.

Jace has turned an excruciatingly embarrassing afternoon into something different. His words have woven into me, just like the sensation of his fingers brushing along my neck, and I can’t gather myself enough to walk out to the kitchen and act like nothing has changed, like it’s business as usual to sit and have hot chocolate with Aidan and a man who makes me feel like I’m the star on top of a Christmas tree. Glenn never once made me feel that way. No, I realize now that Glenn made me feel competent. That’s what I’d wanted at the time. But now…

Jace makes me want things I have no business wanting, one of which is tofeellike the beautiful, sexy woman he claims to see in me.

So I watch him leave my bedroom, taking in the muscles moving beneath his shirt and the way his jeans hug his butt like they’re fond of it—Mary, control yourself!

Taking a steadying breath, I pace in my bedroom, picking out its flaws—(a) the boring beige, (b) the practical panties, and (c)the blank walls—and I wonder if this really is what I look like inside. God, I hope not.

Then my gaze catches on the corner of the box Maisie gave to me, the one I haven’t been able to bring myself to open. I go to the door, listening, and hear murmurs from the other room. Reassured that no one will catch me—a ludicrous thought! I’m an adult, opening something that belongs to me—I return to the box and tug at the tape. Maisie already opened it, so it gives easily, opening with a puff of dust that makes me cough, but there’s a scent that lingers at the end—vanilla with a hint of lemon and musk—my mother’s scent, and the realization puts tears in my eyes.

So much of who I’ve become was shaped by her, good and bad.

Emotion, hot and cold anduncomfortable, wells inside me as I pick up one of the pointe shoes and run my fingertips over it. There’s a neatly folded green leotard underneath and a wrap dance skirt. The wanting I feel in this moment is nearly as powerful as the frankly ridiculous urges I have whenever Jace is around.

My reasons for giving up dance seemed so convincing at the time. Now, I feel a gaping sense of loss for all those years I could have been soaring and chose to sit in a chair instead. Not that I regret becoming a lawyer—Ilikewhat I do—but I could have at least allowed myself to dance for fun. I didn’t need to strip it from my life entirely, as seamlessly as Glenn stripped away his plus-two. Now, though, it’s too late. Or at least it feels too late.

I use the treadmill in the basement after Aidan goes to bed. I go for walks. I sometimes do yoga at a studio run by Maisie’s sister-in-law. But I don’t dance.

Aidan calls my name, startling me out of my thoughts, and I stuff the shoe back into the box as forcefully as if it were a secondvibrator. Then I push the box back into its corner and head to the kitchen.

“Mom, we’re finished!” Aidan hollers, his voice much louder than it needs to be. “We finished the hot chocolate and the snack. You were in there for alongtime. Did you have a stomachache?”

My gaze skates to Jace, whose eyes are full of heat. Glenn has blue eyes too, and I always thought there was something cold about the color—that it prevented them from showing emotion—but Jace’s eyes aren’t like that. They’re like the hottest part of a fire.

“Aidan reminded me that he’ll be at his grandparents’ house this weekend,” he says.

Something shivers down my spine. Anticipation. Fear. Desire. But he hasn’t finished yet, and he continues, “If you’re willing”—I can hear Nicole’s dark chuckle in my head, as if she’s become my inner demon—“I’d really like to build that model with him. Maybe you can get back to me about a good day?”

“Uh. Yeah,” I say, wondering if I’m imagining the hint of insinuation or maybe just wanting to hear it. But no. There was no misinterpreting what he said to me, or the way his fingers felt, tracing the line of my jaw. “We can talk about it this weekend.”

“I’d like that,” he says smoothly, no pause at all. “You can call me anytime.”

“Can I call you anytime too?” Aidan asks excitedly.

Jace’s eyes flick to me before settling on him. “If you have your mom’s permission. It’s always important to ask for permission before calling another adult.”

It’s a perfect answer, or at least I think so. Aidan is scowling a little.

Jace must see it too, because he says, “I’m looking forward to building a model together, buddy.”

Aidan claps and jumps out of his chair. “This was a good visit, Jace. I’m glad you came, even if you’re not very good at Race to the Treasure. I had to explain the rulesa lot.”

Jace doesn’t seem remotely offended. In fact, he’s grinning as he stands from his chair, the height and heft of him so big it makes our “cozy” kitchen feel like an Amazon box with a door. Not in a bad way, though. For a man who takes up so much space, he does it in a way that doesn’t make you feel claustrophobic or small.

“Yes, itwasa good visit,” he says, looking at me, and I find myself wondering if I will call him.

Can I work up the nerve?

---