Page 165 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

Not that Bingo wants a rare moment of affection, but thatIneed it. I spend my life around other people, but we rarely touch. Roger’s not the type to hug it out, and I respect Mrs. Rosa’s space. Maybe that’s why holding Mary’s soft hand affected me so much. And touching her long, graceful neck, her jaw. And Aidan’s surprise hug.

Maybe I’m just desperate for some kind of human contact.

The thought runs through my mind like a quickly moving stream, and I’m still pondering it as I change into my work clothes, listening to my friends’ spirited discussion of the best ketchup brands.

I leave Roger and Mrs. Rosa at my kitchen table, now debating whether a hot dog is a sandwich, then drive to the gym I joined soon after I moved to town. While my job is physical, I still need workouts to burn off my excess energy and frustration, a habit forged in prison. And it’s not too busy on a Friday night, so I don’t have any trouble gaining access to the equipment. After I finish my lifts, I get on the treadmill and start a run. I prefer to run outside, but it’s dark and cold, and there’s a college football game on one of the TV screens to hold my attention while I listen to a playlist on my phone with earbuds.

I’m two miles in at a punishing pace when the music in my ears is interrupted by an incoming call. My first thought is that something happened to Roger. It’s a sad reflection on my life that there aren’t many other reasons someone would call me at nine on a Friday night.

I’m caught off guard when I see Mary’s name appear on the screen. Part of me panics, thinking something must havehappened to Aidan for her to call, but the rest of me hopes she called for another reason. One related to her new pink vibrator. I stab the stop button on the treadmill and answer, straddling the conveyor belt as it comes to a halt.

“Mary?” I ask in concern.

“You answered,” she stammers, sounding shocked.

“You didn’t want me to answer?” I ask, my voice breathless from my run. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. I thought you might be out. On a date.” She gasps. “Oh, my God. Maybe youareon a date. Is that why you sound out of breath?”

I laugh. Does she think I’m in the middle of having sex? “I’m not on a date, Mary. Just working out. I don’t usually answer calls when I’m on a date. I prefer to give my attention to the woman I’m with.”

“Oh.”

After several seconds of silence, I ask, “Did Aidan get off to his grandparents’ okay?”

“Yeah.” She’s silent again, and I almost ask her why she called, but it’s obvious this isn’t an emergency, and I’m worried she’ll end the call before she gets to whatever prompted her to dial my number. “I bought a painting.”

“Oh?”

“I thought about what you said. How you saw Aidan in his room but none of me in mine. So I bought a painting,” she says in a rush, her words a little slurred.

Has she been drinking? Because that’s the only explanation I can come up with for why she’d call me to tell me she bought a painting.

Guilt rushes through me as I think about that judgmental comment I made about her bedroom. “Mary. I shouldn’t have said that. I was out of line.”

“No,” she says softly. “You were right. And it’s not like I just went to Target and bought a picture of a cow skull. It’s an actual painting.”

I step off the treadmill, grabbing my bottle of water, and snag a hand towel from a nearby stack. After wiping the sweat from my face, I say, “I should hope not. A cow skull doesn’t seem like you at all.”

“Whatdoesseem like me?” she asks, her voice low and seductive. Does she mean to sound sexy, or is it the influence of the alcohol thathasto be flowing through her bloodstream?

A laugh rumbles through my chest. I walk over to a wall and lean my shoulder against it. “I don’t know. Something soft and gentle. Maybe a landscape.”

“That’s not what I got,” she says. “I think it’ll surprise you. In fact, my sisters are going to be shocked.”

“Let me guess,” I say with a grin. “It’s a jackalope.”

“What’s a jackalope?”

“Come on,” I tease. “You’ve never seen a jackalope?”

“No.”

“Then it’s obviously not a jackalope, unless you bought a picture of a rabbit with antlers without realizing what they’re called.”

“There are rabbits with antlers?”

I laugh again. How can such an intelligent woman be so naive? If I said that aloud, I’m sure she’d take it as an insult, although I don’t mean it as one. But man…she’s lived a sheltered life, and I find myself wanting to draw her out of it.

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