Page 38 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“Oh?” he asks, gripping the top of the short built-in bookshelf with the hand not holding the bag. His knuckles look white. It’s obvious he knows this is bad news, or at least that he’s had enough bad news in one day that he can’t imagine it being anything else.

“It’s Kerry,” I say in a burst of words. “I did talk to her. I know it’s wrong to lie, but…” I swallow. “It sounds like she left Jay, and she’s on vacation. I have no idea what happened between them, but she was really dismissive, even when I told her about the heart attack. I don’t think she plans on visiting him.”

“Fuck,” Rowan says, his face transforming into a grimace that’s almost intimidating, even though it’s not meant for me. “My little sister said she thought something was off between them. Dammit. This isn’t good.”

“No,” I agree. Then, because he should know exactly what he’s dealing with, I add, “She didn’t seem very nice.”

His mouth lifts a little, in a pantomime of a smile. “Guess he’s got a type, huh?”

“Don’t we all?”

“What’s your type, Kennedy?” he asks, his eyes hooded as he studies me. “Suited Man Number…Six, is it?”

“Very funny,” I say, feeling a burst of self-consciousness. “I think it’s safe to say they’re your grandmother’s type, not mine. She’s the one who chose them.”

“For you,” he says. But then he gives a nod of acknowledgment. “She does like to think she knows what’s best for everyone. Doesn’t mean she’s right.”

He glances around, then does a double take when he notices Jonah’s framed photo sitting on the low bookshelf with the other tchotchkes. Eyebrows raised, he says, “What’s with the beauty shot? Is Jonah the new front-runner?”

A scowl slips over my face. “Absolutely not. He brought it by because he thought it would make me feel better. I guess Harry told everyone I have food poisoning, but they were all acting like it was giardia. Maybe he figured food poisoning wouldn’t be enough to make them stay away, so he implied it was something worse.”

He laughs ruefully and shakes his head. “Sounds like Harry.” He adds a shrug. “Sounds like Jonah, too.”

“All of the guys came by,” I say, mostly because hedidsay he wanted to be distracted. When I see the salty look my words put on his face, I rush to add, “For the cameras of course.”

Silence hangs between us for a few moments, and it’s not the comfortable kind. It’s loaded with the strange tension between us, with the knowledge of what happened to his stepfather today. With the question of why Rowan is here and what we’ll do now that he is.

I’m the one who breaks it. “I have a bottle of scotch in my drawer. Unfortunately, Jonah’s the one who gave it to me.”

“I think we can overlook that,” Rowan says, his lips lifting. “You know, I didn’t take you for a scotch drinker.”

“I didn’t either,” I admit. “But I’m realizing that I like a lot of things I didn’t think I would.”

It sounds like a leading comment, and honestly, I’m not totally sure I didn’t mean it that way. Seeing him now, after spending all afternoon sending away one rich jerk after another,I know that there’s one man who holds my interest presently. And it’s not any of the six who are vying to be my husband.

I can’t keep him. I know that. If nothing else, it would destroy the show, and if the show implodes, then so does my big plan for Leto’s Hands. And yet…I can’t help wondering if I can give him—and myself—a different sort of distraction tonight.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ROWAN

Kennedy Littlefield looks positively touchable tonight, dressed in her Ralph’s shirt and a pair of shorts so small you’d almost need a microscope to find them, not that I’m complaining. Her hair is down around her face, her blue eyes soft and sweet, untouched by makeup. Some women I know would have shrieked to have a man show up when they were in their pajamas, but her face is clean for bed, and she doesn’t seem fazed. Of course, why would she be? She’s even more gorgeous in the moments when she steps down from her pedestal. I’ve noticed it before now, on a few stolen occasions—her dress unzipped down her luscious back, her head tipped up to look at the tree at Ralph’s, her hair captured in that knit cap.

Don’t think like that, you dumbass.

I’m not here to ogle Kennedy…except, if that’s not why I’m here, whyamI here?

I’m not totally sure, to be honest. Other than I told her I’d come. Of course, I could have just as easily pulled Harry aside after he came home, passed on what little news I had, and that could have been that. It’s just…I wanted to comfort her in person. After all, what happened today was no normal clusterfuck. A woman like Kennedy has probably been shieldedfrom the world. It’s likely the first time she’s watched a man keel over. Hell, I’m a part-time fireman, and I’ve only seen it happen once. Most of our calls are for kitchen fires, smoke, or kittens caught in trees.

I watch as she pulls the bottle of scotch from the drawer. I expect her to take out some crystal goblets—I guess my grandmother or one of the producers pulled some sort of partnership with a crystal company, because it’s everywhere in this house—but she just sits on a floor pillow beneath the big picture window and nods for me to do the same. I shrug and follow suit.

This whole room is ridiculous, not that I expected anything different. Each of the Labelle’s suites has a theme, and this one is a princess room. There are little crystal slippers, a ceramic horse-drawn carriage, and other expensive dust-collectors arranged on top of those short bookcases that line the room, along with every other available surface. It’s strangely appropriate yet inappropriate, because Kennedy is most definitely a grown woman.

I watch, my mouth dry, as she opens the bottle and takes a swig. Blood channels to my dick at the sight, and I plop another pillow onto my lap because I don’t want to scare her off.

When she holds the bottle out to me, I hesitate, and her eyes widen. “Oh, sorry. Did you want a glass? We can get glasses.”

“No,” I say, my tone harsher than intended. Part of me is desperate for that bottle—for the comfort of what’s inside of it and also the pleasure of putting my lips where hers have been. If I can’t kiss her or slide those little shorts off her hips, at least I can do that. I take a slug of the scotch, then make a face. “What the fuck is this?”

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