Christmas with Him: The Tycoon's Christmas Proposal / A Bravo Christmas Reunion / Marry-Me Christmas. Jackie BraunЧитать онлайн книгу.
as he hadn’t been at his parents’ house on Christmas Day last year or the year before or …
As if she’d read his mind, Eve said, “It’s a shame you won’t be in town to see the boys tear into this. They’re going to be so excited.”
While his family gathered around a decorated Douglas fir tree, joking, laughing and exchanging presents, he would be alone in Cabo, as far away from snow and holiday merriment as he could possibly manage. Dawson pictured himself sitting poolside at the condo he’d rented, a tall glass of something chilled and fortified in one hand to help blot out the memories.
Eve was watching him, apparently waiting for him to say something in response. He gave a negligent shrug. “I’ll catch up with them after the holidays.”
“Okay. Terrific.” She nodded. He didn’t trust her easy agreement and for good reason. “You can see them at a Sunday dinner at your parents’ house.”
“Eve—”
She cut him off by slapping her knee in exaggerated fashion. “Oh, wait, I forgot. You don’t go to Sunday dinners at your parents’ house any longer.”
“Are you trying to make me feel bad?” he asked tightly. “I can assure you, there’s no need. I already do.”
Instead of apologizing, Eve said, “Good, then you understand exactly how your loved ones feel when you shut them out and stand them up not just on the holidays but on a regular basis throughout the year.”
On an oath, he launched to his feet. Irritation and guilt blended together, proving to be a volatile mix. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s not polite to poke around in people’s private affairs?” he snapped.
“No. She didn’t.” Eve stood as well. “My mother died of a drug overdose when I was eight.”
He blanched. “God. I … I’m sorry.”
“No.” She kneaded her forehead. “I’m sorry. I played that like a damned trump card and it was a lousy thing to do. But I’m not sorry for poking around in your private affairs, as you put it.”
“Why does this matter to you?” he demanded.
“Because … because it …” Her next words nipped his anger in the bud. “Because you matter to me, Dawson. Okay? You matter.”
“Eve.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, unable or unwilling to process the emotions her words evoked. Or maybe he was just too afraid. After all, it was hard to cling tightly to the past when a part of him wanted to start reaching for the future.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you that,” she said quietly. He opened his eyes in time to watch her swallow and cross her arms over her chest. The move struck him as defensive rather than defiant, especially when she added, “Unfortunately, I have a very bad habit of leading with my heart where men are concerned. Just don’t let it go to your head.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he replied, though the truth was that Eve mattered to him, too. Indeed, in a very short period of time, she’d managed to thoroughly shake up the status quo of Dawson’s otherwise rigidly ordered life. He still wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Don’t say anything. I prefer to do all the talking anyway.” She pushed the hair back from her face and expelled a deep breath. “As my bombshell of a moment ago should make perfectly clear to you, I don’t come from the kind of family you do. After my mother died, my father took off and I was shuttled around from one relative to another, all of whom made it plain that they disapproved of my dad, had been disappointed in my mother and didn’t have very high hopes that I’d amount to much.”
“Aw, Eve.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. That’s not the purpose behind my words. You’re lucky, Dawson. Very lucky to have people who care about you and who want to remain close.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for me. I’ve accepted my family for what it is and my father for what he isn’t. He’s let grief and regrets rule and ruin his life. I don’t want to see you make the same mistake.” She blinked a couple of times in rapid succession and managed a smile. “Okay, that’s all I’m going to say on either subject.”
Dawson didn’t quite believe her. But before he could think of anything to say in response, Ingrid arrived in the doorway.
“Dinner is ready, Mr. Burke.”
Dawson’s formal dining room sported vaulted ceilings, a crystal chandelier and an oval cherry table that could comfortably accommodate a dozen guests. A gas fireplace and glowing candle centerpiece made the large room cozy. But it was the framed family portrait hanging over the mantel that made it personal.
Eve had never seen photographs of Dawson’s late wife and daughter, but even if he hadn’t been included in the shot, she would have known who the other two people were. In an odd way, she recognized them, even if she did not recognize the happy, relaxed man who was seated with them.
As Ingrid set out serving dishes heaped with enough steaming food to serve a small army, Eve discreetly studied the photograph. Sheila was blond-haired and blue-eyed with the delicate beauty of a porcelain doll. Isabelle was lovely, too. Eve glimpsed mischief in the little girl’s light eyes and a hint of her father’s stubbornness in her small jaw. She’d expected them to be beautiful and they were. But what truly surprised Eve was the odd connection she felt to Dawson’s loved ones and the disappointment that they would never meet.
The dinner conversation started out stilted and strained thanks to the emotionally charged discussion that had preceded it. She blamed herself for that. What had she been thinking, provoking the man and then essentially baring her soul to him?
No matter, the deed was done and she wouldn’t waste her time or energy regretting it now. Besides, she’d only spoken the truth. Dawson did matter to her. Eve hadn’t realized how much until the words had tumbled out.
Oh, well. She was who she was … though it seemed she never learned. No, she picked up stakes and started over, but she never learned.
She was fussing with her napkin when Dawson asked, “Would you care for some wine?”
Eve pushed her glass closer to his side of the table. “Yes, but just a little, please.”
Once he’d poured the chilled pinot grigio, dinner became a far more relaxed affair. It had nothing to do with the loosening effects of alcohol, but the fact that Dawson spilled his wine down the front of his shirt when he went to take a sip.
It was an accident, of that Eve was sure. He wasn’t the sort of man given to slapstick comedy, though he had loosened up considerably since their first meeting. Had that been a mere two weeks ago?
“I can’t believe I did that.” He dabbed at his shirt front with his napkin. “I’m rarely so clumsy.”
“It’s my fault,” Eve said.
He stopped wiping and glanced over at her. “How do you figure that?”
Face straight, she replied, “It’s the effect I have on men. They become blundering fools in my presence.”
Dawson snorted. And though he was smiling, he sounded somewhat serious when he replied, “You certainly do have an effect on me, Eve.”
Half an hour later, Eve pushed back from the table on a contented sigh. “I probably should have passed on that second helping of pork tenderloin, but it was too good.”
“Irresistible,” he agreed as he watched Eve dab her mouth with a linen napkin.
Heat curled inside her at the suggestive remark. Just over his right shoulder, Sheila and Isabelle smiled down at Eve from the portrait, dousing any flames before they could start. Just as well, she decided. Just as well.
During the meal, while they’d talked companionably, steering