Million Dollar Christmas Bride - Holly Rayner Page 0,7

made him emotional, and he didn’t like that. Speaking about work was safer ground.

“It’s been going well,” he said. “We’ve expanded into Illinois, Indiana, and Delaware. We’re considering a few test stores in New England down the road. My team is working on that.”

“You sound just like your father,” Mary said, with the same sour expression she’d worn earlier. Her lips pinched together into two thin pink lines as she shook her head. “While we were together he opened up over one hundred new stores; did you know that? Went from being just another store to the most successful grocery stores in the South. Your father wasn’t much of a romantic, but he sure did know business.”

She nibbled on a bite of creamy rice and washed it down with white wine. After patting her pursed lips with a cloth napkin, she said, “And what about you, Jackson? You’re obviously a good businessman, but how about your personal life? Are you seeing anyone?”

Jackson curled his lips in a wry smile. He disliked answering questions about relationships. He dated occasionally, but his flings never seemed to last.

“I’m married to my work, my assistant likes to say.” As he spoke, the holiday music floating through the speakers reached a crescendo.

Mary’s eyes lit up, and for the first time that evening, she smiled. “What was that? Did you say you’re married? The music was too loud… I didn’t hear the rest of it.”

She leaned forward with excitement. “Oh, Jackson! Here I was, thinking that you were just like your father—obsessed with business. But you’re married! Tell me about it.”

Jackson opened his mouth to protest but then stopped short. All evening he’d sensed that his mother was disappointed in him. He’d been barely conscious of it. But now, sensing her obvious approval and joy, he became more aware of the contrast.

She’s happy thinking that I’m married, he thought. She approves of it. Maybe this is my inroad to a new relationship with her.

“Almost,” he said. He licked his lips, then sat up straighter and squared his shoulders. “I’m engaged. To a beautiful woman. I hope you’ll meet her one day.”

What on earth am I getting myself into? he thought, as his mother’s smile widened and she clapped her hands together twice.

“Oh! Jackson, I would enjoy that. She must be very special. The Historical Society is hosting a charity dinner this Saturday; why don’t you bring her along? I’ll call up the event organizers and book two more plates at my table so the three of us can chat.”

“Sounds great,” Jackson said. Inwardly, he groaned. The hole he was digging just got deeper.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Mary said happily, just as the waiter passed by. She lifted one weathered hand. “Waiter! I’d love another glass of wine,” she said. “But not another chardonnay. That was far too…” She launched into a litany of complaints about the wine that had been served.

“So will I,” Jackson murmured, though his mother was no longer listening.

Chapter 3

Jackson

Jackson fiddled with the dials on his Porsche’s stereo. Usually, he enjoyed listening to music on the way to his office at the Wylde Stores headquarters in downtown Memphis; today, he couldn’t seem to find a song that suited his mood.

It was the morning following his dinner with Mary, and the pale-peach orb of the sun was just peeking out from behind the tall buildings that lined the street. He could tell it was going to be an unseasonably warm day—a relief given the cold weather that had plagued the city ever since November began—but he felt far from sunny. He couldn’t stop thinking about the lie he’d told the night before.

I told her I was going to be married, he thought, and I’m not even in a relationship. The last woman I dated was…

“Whew…” He blew out an exasperated sigh, which caught his passenger’s attention.

Rufus, his seven-year-old rottweiler, looked over from the passenger seat.

“Too long, buddy,” Jackson said to Rufus, with a shake of his head. “Too long. Can’t even think of the last serious girlfriend I had. Can you?”

Rufus looked at Jackson with big brown eyes that glistened in the morning sunlight. “Woof!” he said woefully.

“No?” Jackson said. “Well… we’re going to have to think of something.”

He reached a stoplight, and his thoughts shifted to his car. He’d heard back from his personal assistant, whom he’d texted about the accident the night before. Apparently, the Ferrari dealership had quoted the damage repairs at about five grand. As Jackson thought this over,