Page 166 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“You should come see it,” she says, her voice low and seductive. “Come see for yourself.”

Jesus. The blood rushes from my head straight to my cock. I take a long drink from my water bottle to help cool me down, and cover my crotch with the towel. “I just finished working out. I’m all hot and sweaty,” I say, stalling for time. Everything in mewants to get in my car and race to her house, but I’m not sure that’s the smart thing to do.

“I still want you to come over,” she says, sounding less confident.

Fuck. I want her to believe she’s a beautiful, sexy woman, and if I say no, I run the risk of confirming what Glenn the Prick made her believe. “Okay. But I need to shower first.”

“Oh.” The lilt of her voice suggests she’s thinking of what I’ll look like in the shower.

My cock twitches. Jesus. I haven’t been this turned on by a phone conversation since I was in high school. And we haven’t even been talking dirty.

“Do you still want me to come over?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says in a breathless rush that has me heading for the locker room.

“Okay. See you in a bit.”

I hang up and open my locker, grabbing a towel and shampoo out of my gym bag. I don’t usually shower at the gym, but I keep a few things in my bag for just-in-case situations. Like this one. No, not exactly like this one. This is the first time I’ve been pulled away from the gym because a woman entranced me on the phone.

After a quick shower, I get dressed in an extra pair of gym shorts and T-shirt from the bag. It’s forty degrees outside—not shorts weather—and I briefly consider stopping by my place to get a pair of jeans, but I’d run the risk of Roger asking me where I’m going. I feel the need to protect Mary’s reputation, as ridiculous as that seems.

So I get into my car and drive to her house, torn between the base need to see her and the desire to protect her, from me, it seems. It’s not like I plan to hurt her. In fact, I would never knowingly hurt her, but I don’t want to be the kind of rebound she’ll regret.

When I pull into her drive, her front windows are lit up and her porch light is on. I start to get out of the car, but then I lean over and pop the glove compartment and grab a handful of condoms from the box I keep in there for the rare occasions I have a hookup. It feels sleazy stuffing them into the pocket of my gym shorts, like I’m going in expecting Mary to put out, but there’s no denying the pull between us. Better to be prepared than to have to run outside later to grab one. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I hurry to her porch. The need to see her is overwhelming.

I can hear music as I approach her front door—loudmusic. It’s familiar, and while I can’t remember the name or the artist, I know it’s alternative rock. Something older. I knock on the door, then ring the doorbell when she doesn’t answer. Leaning to the side, I see shadows moving against the sheer curtains.

After another knock goes unanswered, I send Mary a text.

I’m outside on your porch.

When she still hasn’t answered about ten seconds or so later, I try the doorknob, surprised when it turns. Mary definitely seems like the lock-her-house-up-tight type of person, so now I’m worried something’s wrong. Maybe she’s not answering because she can’t. I push the door open, prepared to face anything. Or at least IthoughtI was prepared to face anything.

There’s no preparing for the sight of Mary O’Shea dancing in her living room.

Except she’s not dancing like most people do. She’s dancing like those people on that show my sister loved to watch—So You Think You Can Dance. I’m mesmerized.

Her back is to me as her arms reach out in front of her, and then she wraps them around her chest and tucks her head. The music begins to build, and she spins, lifting her arms up high. Her eyes are closed, but the pure joy on her face catches me by surprise. Her leg darts behind her, her toes pointed, and sheleans her body back as one arm sweeps over her head, her hand flexed. She’s so graceful, so…magical. That’s not a word I tend to use, but there’s no other way to describe the way she’s moving.

Her back is arched, her head tipped back, and suddenly she opens her eyes and sees me.

And screams.

She straightens and wraps her arms around her chest as she turns to face me, hopping on one foot, the other leg bent at the knee, her foot a few inches above the floor. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long.” I’m standing in the open doorway, letting the cold air in, but she looks so panicked that I’m not sure I should shut it behind me.

“You saw me?”

“It was beautiful, Mary.”

She tries to put her foot down and winces.

“Did you hurt yourself?” I ask in alarm.

“It’s just a cramp.”

Since she hasn’t kicked me out yet, I shut the door behind me and close the distance between us, scooping her up into my arms.

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