Million Dollar Christmas Bride - Holly Rayner Page 0,5

raised in.

Thankfully, Danielle interjected before he was forced to answer her question. “Oh, shoot, I’ve got to run. Stan just pulled up and we have dinner reservations at a new club downtown.”

Jackson said a quick goodbye before she hung up, then leaned back against the headrest.

What was he getting into with this visit with his mother? Was Danielle smart to make a clean break from her past? Was he only hurting himself by diving back in?

He had a feeling that seeing his mother was going to open up old wounds from his childhood, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He felt a knot tighten in his throat, and he dealt with it swiftly, by expertly ignoring it until it relocated.

“It’s just dinner,” he murmured to himself as he pushed open the car door and strode toward the restaurant.

Maybe I am foolish for meeting her here, but maybe not. Maybe this will be good for me—in some way that I can’t see, quite yet. And maybe I’ll be able to convince her not to give away that house.

I grew up in that house. It’s a piece of my childhood. I can’t let her throw it away.

Memories of his childhood flitted through his mind as he walked into the restaurant’s expansive entryway.

The maître d’ recognized him and ushered him forward. “Mr. Wylde! It’s so wonderful you are here. I just seated your mother a few minutes ago. She’s eager to see you.”

Jackson followed the man through the bustling dining room. Though it was only mid-November, classical music with a distinct holiday ring to it floated through the air, and the gold candle holders in the center of each table were ringed with little wreaths of evergreen, complete with miniature red velvet bows.

The decorations reminded him of the picture-perfect way his mother would decorate the house at Christmastime—before she abandoned them, that is. Jackson had preferred his father’s casual style, cutting down a tree, opening new toys from Santa, and watching football together.

When Jackson spotted his mother, Mary, he tried to arrange his features so that they would not show shock. He pasted a smile on his lips, though he felt anything but happy. The woman before him, who looked older than her seventy-five years, was far from the graceful, porcelain-faced woman he remembered from his youth. She was stooped, and struggled to get up out of her chair to greet him.

“Jackson, my boy,” she said, as she reached up and wrapped a bony arm around his neck.

He had to lean over so that she could reach him. Her wrist pressed into his collar bone. She let her arm slip a bit and gave him a pat before pulling away. He remembered that she’d never been overly affectionate, and that seemed to be the same. She had a sour expression on her pinched face, as if hugging him had been a strain.

“You’re so tall,” she said.

“That’s what happens when you grow up,” Jackson said. “I was ten the last time you saw me, hm?” He waited as his mother sat, and then he took a seat as well.

“Was that all?” his mother said, with a bewildered shake of her head. “I could have sworn you’d turned thirteen that year.”

“No, ma’am,” Jackson said, with a slight shake of his head. “Ten.”

“Just a boy,” Mary said. “And look at you now. So handsome.” It was a compliment, but she said it with a twinge of annoyance. “Just like your father,” she added. “He was a looker, that man. That’s why I fell for him.” She reached for her glass of white wine, which had apparently been delivered before Jackson’s arrival.

Jackson raised his eyes to the maître d’, who was hovering nearby. He seemed relieved to be acknowledged. It must have been awkward for him to witness the strained reunion as a mere bystander.

“Your usual, Mr. Wylde?” he asked.

Jackson nodded, happy that a drink would soon arrive to ease the tension he felt mounting within him.

When the maître d’ left, Jackson found himself alone with Mary. It was like being with a stranger.

He had no idea how he could possibly convey to her what her departure had meant in his life. How could he share the fact that everything had changed so dramatically in her absence? How could he share with her the feelings he’d had as a child, when he’d finally realized that she wasn’t going to come home? He could barely get in touch with those feelings for himself, let alone speak about