Page 215 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

She reaches for her clutch and pulls out a tiny notebook and pen.

It’s definitely a work call, so I take off, heading toward her house.

She continues to talk to Dennis, taking notes and making occasional sounds of confirmation. I sneak glimpses at her in her poodle skirt, and while I confess I wish she were still wearing her sexy black dress, Mary could be wearing a paper bag and I’d still think she was beautiful. Nicole and Damien’s wedding was hands down the craziest ceremony I’ve ever attended, and there’s no doubt it challenged Mary’s preconceived notions of what a wedding should look like—hell, it challenged mine—but she took it in stride and even seemed to enjoy it.

I’ve never thought much about my own future wedding. After my conviction, I figured that part of my life was over, but now…

I want to believe it’s possible someday. The idea also scares the hell out of me. Not because I’m scared to make a commitment, but because it’s dangerous to wish for something so far out of reach.

“Uh-huh,” she says, breaking into my thoughts as she writes something down in the notebook. “You have confirmation of that?” She nods, even though the person on the other end can’t see her. “Thanks, Dennis. You can send the bill to my home address, and I’ll get a check out right away.”

After she hangs up, she lowers the phone to her lap and remains silent for a moment, squeezing the phone as if it were a stress ball.

“Everything okay?” Without giving it any thought, I reach over and snag her hand. I know a moment of dread, wondering if I’ve screwed up. She said she needed time, and I intended to give it to her. Between this and our moment in the bathroom at her house, I don’t want to send the wrong message.

“Yeah,” she says, squeezing my hand, then turns to me with a tentative smile. “I think so.”

“Did you get news about one of your cases?” I know lawyers tend to work long hours, but Mary told me one of the benefits of her job is that the firm’s hours are so reasonable. A phone call at eight p.m. on a Saturday doesn’t fit that pattern.

“Actually,” she says slowly, “not one ofmycases.” She pauses, and tension builds in the truck. “Yourcase.”

I shake my head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Her hand tightens around mine. “I hired the investigator we use for the firm to look into the circumstances of your arrest and conviction.”

My heart begins to race, a chill running through my body. “What?”

“Something didn’t feel right, Jace. A three-year sentence would’ve been steep even if you’d been arrested right after stealing that car, but all those years later?” Her voice is rising with indignation. “That’s not justice.”

“You investigated me? Without asking me first?” I’m still holding her hand, but now she’s holding on to me and not the other way around.

She gives me a wary look. “I know I should have asked first—”

“You think?” I snap.

“But I didn’t think you’d let me,” she finishes lamely.

“It’smylife, Mary.”

“I’m trying to make it better.”

“You’re insinuating that my life is bad.” Sure, it’s not great, but I’ve worked hard to carve out a place for myself, and the realization that she finds it lacking—just like I feared she would—burns.

“Jace,” she pleads.

I pull my hand from hers and grip the steering wheel. She’s quiet for the rest of the drive back to her house, but my emotions are churning like an off-balance washing machine. I bite back all the things I want to say, not wanting to get into an argument while I’m driving. It’s not safe, and while I may be pissed at Mary, I would never put her life at risk.

When I pull into her driveway, she finally speaks. “I know why you did it, Jace, and why you got such a harsh punishment.”

I give a bitter laugh. “I could have told you all of that. Lester Montague tried to buy my father’s business, and my father declined. But Lester’s not the kind of man who takes no for an answer, and he did everything he could to turn people against my dad. Dad found out and had a stress-induced heart attack. I knew Lester would never get punished for it, so I got pissed, stole his car, and trashed it. I think he always suspected it was me, but he didn’t have proof until the guy who was with mewas arrested for breaking and entering and gave me up in a plea deal.”

I turn to look at her. “I’ve never denied that I fucked up, Mary. I own what I did. Hell,” I fume, “Itoldyou about my record, and you practically accused me of being a pedophile.”

“I overreacted without knowing any of the facts,” she said, her eyes begging me to understand. “You proved I could trust you.”

“You mustn’t have trusted me very much if you had me investigated.”

“That’s not why I did it, Jace,” she protests, tears filling her eyes. “I did it tohelpyou.”

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