Page 30 of His Christmas Wife

“Yeah.”

“You’re an only child?”

Her honesty made him want to share as well. “I wonder if or how things would have been different if that wasn’t the case.”

“What-ifs are dangerous.” Suddenly her light-gold eyes flooded with tears. With a tiny, regret-filled smile, she explained. “My dad died recently.”

The anguish in her words cut through him. He had no idea how long ago it had been, but the loss seemed new.

He winced on her behalf. All too well, he knew how the smallest memory could rush that emotion back to the surface. At times, the loss of his mother felt as if it had happened months—rather than years—ago.

“It was a long, awful descent that left my mom destitute.”

Frost scowled.

“Medical bills, funeral expenses…”

“No insurance?”

“Not enough, and times were tight, so they never had money for extras like burial funds. And seriously, he was young. No one expected anything like this. They thought they had years left to figure out that kind of thing.” She exhaled. “I help out as much as I can. But it’s never enough.”

“Why did I not know any of this?”

“I had no reason to tell you.” She lifted a shoulder as if her response should have been obvious. “He passed right before you took over. Sylvia was more than understanding and generous with my time off needs in the final weeks.”

Another barb about how wonderful her previous boss had been. In the same situation, no doubt he’d have made as many accommodations as he could have. Yet business was business. And as he well knew, Sylvia’s generosity had left the business teetering on the verge of insolvency.

“I keep expecting that the loss of my dad will get easier, but it doesn’t.”

Her voice had turned shaky, perhaps from repressed emotion.

“Anyway, we have work to do.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “And I’d like to get on with it so I have some time to finish my laundry and do my chores.” She took the photo from him and returned it to the precise spot that he’d found it.

Wishing he could vanquish the emotional distance between them, he led the way to the door and opened it for her. With a tight nod of acknowledgment, she preceded him down the stairs.

As always, Jennings was holding open the back door, and she smiled sunnily at the chauffeur. “Morning, Mr. Jennings.”

For a moment, Frost wondered if she’d ever look at him with that kind of genuine, unforced warmth. Last night, she’d been responsive to him, but she’d been in a passionate, endorphin-fed state of mind.

“Good to see you, ma’am.”

“I’d prefer it if you’d call me Kaylee.”

Frost curled his hand into a fist. Not even last night had she invited him to do that.

She slid onto the backseat and scooted toward the far door, putting as much distance between them as possible.

God almighty. One step forward, several back.

Once Frost slid in beside her, Jennings closed the door, and Frost picked up one of the stemless flutes and offered it to her.

“We’re having mimosas?”

“We are.” He tipped his glass toward hers. “I’ll open a celebratory bottle of champagne after my ring is on your finger.”

“Atemporaryring,” she corrected him.

Frost exhaled his frustration. Did everything have to be a struggle?

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