The Billionaire's Christmas Son - Leslie North Page 0,51

Rachel felt like a book was closing, or a doorway—or both. That chapter in her life was over. Her mother had crossed too many lines this time, and in a way, it freed her. She did not, under any circumstances, have to keep entertaining the woman who had threatened to try and take custody of her son.

“Mama. Pick up,” Scott said, and Rachel scooped him up into her arms and pretended to tickle his belly. This made him laugh, a deep belly laugh. Rachel never actually tickled him and that was a game between them. I’m free, she thought wildly. We’re both free. She reached for her phone on the table next to the couch, flipped through the contacts, and blocked her mother’s number.

Yes. She had never been more triumphant, except on the day that she gave birth to Scott—that was the strongest she’d ever been in her life. Except for now. “I did it, buddy. Mommy did it.”

He clapped his hands, cheering for her, even though he had no idea what she’d done. It would be a long time before he understood, if he ever did. The two of them danced around the living room in the bright light of morning. There was no music playing, just the beat of Rachel’s own heart.

She hadn’t felt this fierce in a long time. Confident. Strong. And ...alone. When she set Scott down on his feet, he dove back into his blocks.

Threatening custody. What had ever given her mother the nerve? Years of being clear with her, of trying to set boundaries, and it had come to this. And you shut it down, she thought. You sent her packing.

Celebrating with Scott felt good, although Rachel ached to share her victory with someone else. Someone who would understand and rejoice with her. Hug her.

Someone like Jonas.

Rachel dropped onto the couch and watched Scott play, trying to sort through what to do with the feelings that raged through her, trampling her heart. Why wasn’t he here? Why didn’t the phone ring? Because she’d told him not to call. But it seemed almost incomprehensible that he couldn’t feel her out here, missing him.

Rachel couldn’t call him after one day apart and take it all back, even if she wanted to. It would only prove she needed him, and that she relied on people like her mother. There was no way she could give in to the urge.

Scott was the living image of Jonas, a constant reminder of everything she’d walked away from. Scott abandoned the blocks and sprinted across to the stack of the rest of his toys, going straight for his favorite—the stuffed elk. He buried his face in it, crushing it to the floor. “Dada,” he said, the word breaking Rachel’s heart into a million pieces.

“I know, buddy,” she said. “I miss him too.”

21

Another knock at the door that afternoon had Rachel nearly jumping out of her skin. The place was like Grand Central Station. She prayed Scott wouldn’t wake up from his nap. She braced for it to be her mother again, driven back from wherever she’d gone to lurk in the city. Or Annabeth. She’d mentioned calling to check in on her, and Rachel wouldn’t put it past her to show up instead, ice cream in hand.

Rachel opened the door to find a young man standing there in black slacks and a blue polo shirt. He glanced down at the tablet he held. “Ms. Alexander?”

“Yes, that’s me,” she said, eying the slim envelope he held in his other hand with curiosity.

“I have a special delivery for you. Please sign here.” He held the tablet out toward her.

She scrawled her name on the tablet, and the man handed her the envelope.

“Enjoy your day,” he said, turning to leave.

I’d enjoy it a lot more if people stopped knocking on my door. Rachel turned the envelope over and over in her hands. It had her name written on the outside, and that was it. No return address.

Dear Rachel,

I never knew how much I loved my family until I met you. I knew I loved them, of course, but I didn’t know—not consciously, anyway—how far I’d go to protect them until I saw you becoming a part of it. You and Scott. Meeting you again, after all this time, woke something up in the deepest parts of me.

I got your pictures. That’s why I’m writing this, even though it seems silly to send a handwritten letter when we both have phones and emails and all