Page 176 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

But it’s not a jab, like the ones I’m used to. He’s teasing me, and I find I quite like being teased by him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JACE

Mary is in my truck, which brings me equal amounts of joy and horror. The joy is obvious. This woman has captured my attention like no other. I worried she’d want a one-night stand because, really, a woman like Mary O’Shea doesn’t have a relationship with someone like me. The very fact that she insisted on being friends with benefits proves that. And while something deep down insists I should be offended, I’m not. I’m grateful. I meant what I said—I’ll take what I can get, because for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m living in the world, not just watching everyone else.

But Mary lives in an impeccable house—she’s an attorney, for God’s sake—and she’s sitting in my fifteen-year-old, beat-up pickup truck with ripped seats and a broken radio. She doesn’t belong in my truck or my world, and right now she’s getting a full dose of it.

What will she think of my apartment? Or Roger’s?

She’s not looking for a relationship, you idiot. She’s looking for a sexual awakening. That’s why she asked to be friends with benefits. So you’d know from the beginning not to expect more.

Then why is she with me now? Why isn’t she off to lunch with her sisters? Or shopping for Christmas presents? If she onlywants to be friends with benefits, why didn’t she let me leave her house last night?

“So, Roger…?” she prods, probably to break the uncomfortable silence.

I give her a tight smile. “Like I said, he’s my neighbor. I met him when I moved to Asheville three years ago.”

“After you left Sydney?”

“Yeah.” I could leave it at that, but instead I add, “After I got out of prison. I went back home—well, to my sister’s house.Myhome was gone.”

“Gone?” she asks in alarm.

I take a breath. “I was renting, and with no income…” I pause, astounded that I’m telling her this. I’ve only told Roger and Mrs. Rosa, and that was after I’d known them for months. Still, it feels right, so I continue. “My sister disowned me after it became clear I was going to prison. She let me leave my truck and a few things in her garage, but only to appease my mother. I think she ended up selling most of my stuff. Honestly, she probably would have sold my truck too if she hadn’t needed my signature on the title.”

She draws her hand over her mouth. “Jace. That’s terrible! What about your mother? Did she feel the same way?”

I swallow the lump in my throat, keeping my gaze directed out the windshield. “She died while I was in prison. Cancer. She died only a few months after her diagnosis.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice quavering.

The memories are overwhelming, so I don’t respond for a few seconds, feeling the crush of them. “My sister blamed me for our mother’s death, saying the shame of having me as a son killed her. Amanda made it very clear that I wasn’t welcome in her houseorher life. Just before I was released, she came to see me and stated in no uncertain terms she didn’t want me anywhere near her or her son. She parked my truck in the library parkinglot with a few things in the back, then tucked the key under the mat. So after they let me out, I got in my truck and headed straight to Asheville.”

She gives me a long look. “You were, what, twenty when you destroyed that car?”

“Yeah.”

“But they arrested you nine years later and sent you away for three. That’s steep for a crime committed when you were basically a kid. That would be outside the statute of limitations for a lot of other states.”

I shrug. “Life in a small town.”

“Either the prosecutor hated you or you pissed off his best friend.”

I let out a short, uncomfortable laugh. “Or both.”

“Jace…”

“Water under the bridge.”

“Not for your sister,” she says.

“No, I don’t think my sister will ever let it go.”

Thankfully—or not—my apartment complex is up ahead. I’ve been keeping my eye out for Cleo, but there’s no sign of her. I’m alarmed when I see Roger at the corner of the parking lot, stumbling with his cane. He’s not wearing a coat.

“That’s Roger,” I say, my voice tight with worry.

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