The Billionaire's Christmas Baby

“Then why do you love it so much?”

She smiled wryly. “I’m an eternal optimist, Jackson. I can’t let my past dictate my future. I refuse to believe that it’s an indicator of what I’m entitled to. I’m holding out for something better. I’m holding out for the best. I know that one Christmas I’m going to have everything I ever wanted. All the things that can’t be giftwrapped, the important things…” Her voice caught at the end and he felt his own stomach twist at what she said. How the hell could they both have these similarities and yet be polar opposites?

She fidgeted with her glass. He guessed she felt a little awkward about what she’d said. “So you’re waiting for some prince charming to come along and sweep you off your feet?” He winced inwardly at the callousness of his tone. It wasn’t intentional, but it irked him that she thought that this perfect guy was going to come along and make her world.

“Oh, please. I’m not naïve, Jackson. I’ve seen a lot of horrible, truly sickening things. I’m not waiting for a man to make me happy.”

“So what is it you want then? A family?”

She shook her head. “No.”

That was not the answer he expected. She didn’t want a spouse, a child?

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “I have a hard time with trust.”

“With men?”

She held his stare for another second and then gave a sharp nod, her hair falling over her right shoulder. If she had been anyone else, he would have reached out to touch it, to see if it was as soft as the skin he felt the other night beside him in bed.

“Who hurt you?”

“I thought we were supposed to be playing a game here,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“We are. And it’s my turn.”

She downed the rest of her drink, then turned to him. “No one.”

“Bull. You nearly panicked when I touched you that night.”

“I don’t like being manhandled.”

“It was more than that. You were totally freaked, like someone who’s been—”

“Refill please.”

He shook his head. “No way. I gave you a whole, long, honest answer. You’re not getting away with that.”

“Fine. I haven’t exactly had a Cleaver style upbringing either. Let’s say that I’ve had my share of run-ins with the wrong type of guy.”

He felt his heart slam into his rib cage. He watched her expression closely as she turned her head and stared into the fire. “What happened?”

“That’s two questions, Jackson.” She was so quiet he had to lean forward to hear.

The thought of Hannah being brutalized by a man hurt him. It made him angry, made his gut twist and clench, and he was vaguely aware that his emotions were much stronger than they should be for a person he barely knew.

She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and lifted eyes that were filled with secrets and pain to his. He knew what it was like to be so private, how hard it was to share that past and that hurt with someone.

She smiled, and her expression completely changed. She had a gorgeous smile, the kind that made you want to smile back at her. But there was a part of him that was disappointed, because he really did want to know about her.

“My turn!”

But instead of asking him a question she jumped up and walked over to the table. His eyes didn’t leave her as she came back with a plate of Christmas cookies she had baked earlier. He had a difficult time concentrating on what she was chattering on about while he was thinking about how nicely her jeans fit. She spun around at the exact moment his eyes had been admiring her behind. She lifted one arched brow and perched one hand on her hip. He grinned unabashedly.

“Did you hear a word of what I said?” she asked in a voice that made him think she could have been an excellent schoolteacher.

“I heard everything,” he said lying.

“Then what did I just say?” He made the mistake of glancing down at her breasts, which were straining against her shirt. He couldn’t help but think how nicely they’d fill his hands and then some…

“Jackson Pierce.” He couldn’t help it. He ducked his head and laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hannah,” he said into her sparkling eyes, unable to stop the grin that seemed to appear on his face whenever he was around her. “I’m sorry, but you’ve got to cut me some slack. You are a beautiful woman.”

She took a step closer and poked him in the chest and he resisted the urge to laugh. Something else hit him while he stared at her fiery eyes. When he first met her there was no way she would have poked him, but she trusted him now. She acted like her true, spunky, assertive self, and that made him feel damn good.

“Please save your lines for someone who’ll actually fall for them,” she said dryly.

He nodded. “Fine. Why don’t you ask me what you’re really dying to know?”

“And what would that be?” He could tell she was curious, and he didn’t know if it was the whiskey or that his willpower had melted away after two days with this woman, but he was done denying his attraction.

“What it’s like to kiss me.”

Chapter Six

What did he just say?

She quickly averted her eyes from his sparkling brown ones. She needed to act cool and flippant. “Absolutely not at all what I was thinking.”

“But wanting?” He leaned towards her.

Her toes curled as she inhaled the smell of his aftershave. How could a man smell that good at the end of the day? “Wanting?” Jackson Pierce definitely knew how to charm a woman.

“You want me to kiss you.” He hadn’t stopped smiling and she couldn’t either.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink.” Hannah laughed.

“Hannah, two whiskeys wouldn’t even alter my blood alcohol level,” he said dryly.

She liked teasing him. It was electrifying and exciting, and it seemed so natural. If circumstances had been different and they weren’t who they were, maybe this is what they could have been like. Now that they weren’t talking about their pasts anymore she could relax. Or should have been able to if Jackson hadn’t started talking about kissing her. The thought of her lips touching Jackson’s was enough to send her running because she knew it would be sinfully good.

“Now you, on the other hand, you don’t look like you can handle much more,” he said smugly and poured himself another round. Hannah watched him swallow the liquid in one fluid motion, admiring how the muscles in his tanned neck flexed. He was too handsome for his own good. The sparkle in his eye told her that he knew she was checking him out, and liking what she saw.

She pursed her lips and used her most authoritative tone. “Actually, Jackson, I know exactly how much I can handle. I can drink four and a half shots of whiskey before I start acting like a moron. So fill’er up, buddy.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said with a laugh. “But now I want to know how you figured out that you can drink precisely that amount,” he said, handing her a refill. When their fingers met, they both lingered for a few extra moments. She hoped her old calculation was still accurate. She was surprised she actually revealed that, because of course Jackson would want to know.

“When I was in college I thought it would be a wise endeavor to drink in the privacy of my room until I got royally wasted. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about over-drinking when I went out with friends. So I finally got the amount right, and discovered that four and a half was enough without losing my head.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, and leave out any connotation that there would ever be any other reason than that. She finished with taking a long drink of her scotch. Jackson watched her pensively.

His brow furrowed. “So, let me get this straight. You sat in your dorm room by yourself and measured what your maximum dose of alcohol would be. Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

She shook her head. “I don’t like feeling out of control.”

“I can understand that,” he said with a nod. But she could tell that he knew there was more to the story. A part of her wanted to tell him everything. “A nineteen-year-old doesn’t do that kind of thing.”

“Well, this one did,” Hannah said and held up her glass. “Now, if you don’t mind I’ll have that next shot. And I believe we were playing a game of truth or dare.”

“You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?”

Hannah swallowed hard. Why would he ask that? It was the grandma hat. The books. Her holiday bag. He was learning too much about her. It was disconcerting. His feet were propped up on the ottoman in front of the sofa and he stared at the fire straight ahead, almost like he knew that if he looked at her it would be too personal. When she didn’t answer right away he turned.