Million Dollar Christmas Bride - Holly Rayner Page 0,45

warmth that he rarely felt from anyone else in his life.

Who needs it? he thought, cutting off that recollection. She can give her love to someone else. I’m fine on my own. I’ve lived alone my whole life—why would I change that now?

He typed up a quick response, approving his assistant’s suggestion, then slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. Though he wanted to think of anything but Bianca, his mind refused to cooperate.

In his mind’s eye, he could see her face so clearly.

He recalled the way she’d looked when she first sampled a bite of coconut cream layer cake. He remembered the feeling of her weight as she leaned against him when crossing the Heritage Manor dining room in those heels that were so obviously too big. Her smile, quick and authentic. Her figure in that black cocktail dress… those curves…

He could still remember every single country song they’d sung along to at the Corner Bar. And the way she’d looked, bathed in moonlight when sitting on the bench at the edge of the riverboat.

Stop! he commanded himself. This isn’t right. I can’t dwell on this. It’s time to move on—like I have with every other relationship I’ve ever begun. Move on before someone gets hurt.

I should never have slept with her. I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the best of me. Space will be good for us. Emotions lead to messiness… disaster… heartache. Who needs it?

This thought was clear and stern; it came from a part of him that was used to being in charge.

For the past twenty years, and perhaps even longer than that, he’d listened to that inner voice.

A ringing bell sounded, the tone rhythmic and slightly jarring in the hushed morning atmosphere. Jackson, pulled suddenly from his inner monologue, looked up.

An older man, in his seventies at least, stood nearby, just a few feet away in front of a department store. By his side was a metal tripod, painted red. Hanging from the tripod was a red bucket. The man was dressed as Santa, his outfit complete with shiny black boots, a red velvet jumpsuit, and a white beard that masked his lower face. His eyes, above the beard, sparkled with good cheer. He raised the bell in his hands and rang the bell several more times, all the while watching Jackson.

“Merry Christmas, son!” he said.

Son. The word hit Jackson in the chest like a punch, but he wasn’t sure why.

“It’s not Christmas yet,” he said moodily. “But thanks.” He moved his gaze away from the man and stepped forward so that he could pass by.

Son. The word had jarred his consciousness almost as much as the clanging bell.

Suddenly, he knew why.

Dad, he thought. I’ve picked all of these beliefs up from Dad. He was hurt by Mom, and he never trusted a woman again. He never trusted love again.

He focused on work. The Wylde empire he was building, one store at a time. He learned to get fulfillment from the power he wielded on the job.

But is that what I want?

The man dressed as Santa continued to talk, but Jackson was hardly listening.

Jackson removed his wallet from his pocket, pulled out a few large bills, and stuffed them into the red metal bucket.

He started walking again, this time faster. Is that where my fulfillment is going to come from—forever? Until I die? From work, money, being an employer?

It’s safe, at least.

He’d always trained his managers to be able to do proper risk assessments. If a risk was big and the reward was small, he trained them not to take it.

I have everything I need, he thought. My life is good. I can’t complain.

Rufus continued to pull. “Hey, give it a rest, okay?” Jackson said. “I told you, we’re not going to see Peaches today.”

Rufus slowed his pace slightly, which gave Jackson’s aching shoulder a break. When a call came through from one of his district managers, he took it. For the next twenty minutes, he talked over sales figures and monthly projections. He rounded a corner and saw the Wylde Headquarters in the distance.

He hung up the phone as he crossed the lobby, then rode up the elevator as he had so many times before. On the top floor, in the foyer that led to his office, he caught sight of a portrait of his father. It was a black and white photo, and Jackson was struck for the first time by the likeness between himself and the man in the image.

I’m