Page 197 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“I was looking at the meatloaf,” I say with a forced smile. “Your mom’s face just happened to be in my line of sight. I’m starving.”

Mary’s struggling not to laugh, which is probably a lot better than she would’ve reacted if she knew that Aidan had also caught me looking at her luscious ass. Thank God I escaped that one.

“So what were you looking at instead of Mom’s butt?” he asks matter-of-factly.

Shit.

Mary’s eyes widen. “Aidan.”

“I was looking at the table,” I choke out.

“No,” Aidan says, getting out of his chair and moving to the edge of the living room. “You were right here, and Mom was right there.” He points to the doorway. “The table is over here.” Now he points to the table.

“I…uh…” I stammer.

Mary looks horrified.

I wonder if I should just get up, walk out to my car, and never look back, but Mary says, “I bet he was just thinking really hard. You know how when you think really hard, you don’t realize you’re staring at something, like a wall, or a car—”

“Or someone’s butt,” Aidan adds. “That does happen to me a lot.”

“Or someone’s butt,” Mary says, but it looks like she’s just swallowed glass. “You were just thinking about something else, weren’t you, Jace?”

My face turns hot, and my heart begins to race. There’s no way I can confess what I was actually thinking about.

“Right.” I swallow. “I was thinking about where we should start when we decorate the Christmas tree. The top or the bottom.”

“I start in the middle,” Aidan says. “I can’t reach the top.”

I nod solemnly. “That’s a great plan.”

“I need to get the potatoes.” Mary turns abruptly and darts back into the kitchen.

“Do you need help?” I call after her.

“No!” she sputters. “Why don’t you sit down with Aidan?”

Is she pissed? Embarrassed? Both?

I take my seat, catching sight of her scooping mashed potatoes from a pot into a bowl. She’s turned sideways, and I get a good view of her silhouette and the way her sweater clings to her breasts.

Turning away from her, I find that Aidan is looking at me.

“I really like potatoes,” I say lamely, then drop my gaze to my plate.

No more looking at Mary’s ass. Or her face. Or her breasts. Oranypart of her. Well, maybe her feet. I mentally shake my head. No, then she might think I have a foot fetish. Just keep your eyes down or on the tree or on Aidan. Anywhere but on Mary.

She brings out the bowl and sits down. “I hope you brought your appetite,” she says, picking up her napkin and putting it on her lap. “It’s been a while since I’ve cooked for three. I may have made too much.”

“Dad doesn’t like meatloaf,” Aidan says as Mary puts a slice on his plate. “He said it’s bor-waa.”

Mary coughs. “He called it bourgeois.” She keeps her attention on the potatoes she’s piling onto Aidan’s plate. “And he didn’t mean it like Aunt Molly does when she calls something bougie. But you’ve always liked it, honey. I hope you’ll eat some tonight.”

He insulted Mary’s mother’s recipe. Only further proof that Glenn is a giant dick.

Mary hands me the potato bowl, and I scoop a generous helping onto my plate, then take two slices of the meatloaf. “Like I said, meatloaf is one of my favorite meals.”

Aidan carries the conversation during the rest of dinner, telling me about this weekend—he still doesn’t like his grandparents’ tree, and he and his grandparents attended acaroling event where every guest under twelve got to pick a small present—leaving little opportunity for me to embarrass myself any more than I already have. He eats almost his whole plate, and the pleased look on Mary’s face suggests it’s not a frequent occurrence.

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