The Billionaire's Christmas Baby(22)

“I’d rather dress up as a Santa in a shopping mall and have obnoxious kids sit on my lap. Good night.”

Hannah stood in the doorway of the kitchen, baby bottle in one hand, Emily in the other, as she watched Jackson walk down the hallway. She was torn between chucking the bottle in the direction of his retreating figure and crying like a baby.

…

Jackson was done for. Seriously, cooked.

They were on day two of this horrid forced arrangement. After an evening straight from Hell thanks to the neighbors he’d managed to avoid for the last five years, he had woken up to the gorgeous sound of Hannah’s laughter, which put him in an even fouler mood.

He’d trudged over to the window only to find the snow hadn’t let up at all. It was the worst storm he’d seen in at least ten years. And for a guy that had gotten used to not feeling, he had spent the entire two days on some sort of roller-coaster ride of emotions. His biggest problem was that he began to not hate being cooped up in this cabin with Hannah and the baby. Hannah and his, er, the baby puttered around the house making all sorts of noises and happy baby-type sounds. Everywhere he looked Hannah was about. Cooking, singing to the baby, playing with the baby, changing the baby. And she was so damned loud that he’d been forced on more than a few occasions to glance over at them. When he did, he got an odd feeling in his chest when he saw that baby girl gurgling and staring at Hannah. And then he got some other, very inconvenient feelings when he looked at Hannah. Her smile, her hair, the sound of her voice—it drove him to distraction. He didn’t get a speck of work done thanks to Hannah. He ended up losing game after game of solitaire on his computer while pretending to work.

And now that the baby slept it was the two of them in the great room again. The scene was annoyingly perfect. A storm blustered away outside while they were warm and toasty in his cabin. Even the constant Christmas songs were becoming less irritating. He was with a woman he found irresistibly sexy, who was also funny as hell, and smarter than anyone he’d ever slept with or contemplated sleeping with. But he couldn’t even consider being with her because of who she was.

“Do you play cards?”

Jackson just stared at her. Had she said something?

“Hello-ooo? Earth to Jackson.” Clearly exasperated with him she rolled her eyes. “I said, do you want to play a game of cards?” How was it possible a woman this intelligent could be this oblivious to the one thing they could be doing tonight? Cards? The last thing he felt like doing in a secluded cabin with a sexy, intriguing, and utterly beautiful woman was playing cards.

“Cards?” he spat out finally.

His derision did nothing to hamper her enthusiasm. “Yes, cards! Maybe we could have a game of crazy eights?”

“Crazy eights?”

She frowned at him. “Stop repeating everything I’m saying like all my suggestions are imbecilic.”

“What the hell is crazy eights? That must be a game only small-town people play,” he said, purposely baiting her.

She crossed her arms. “How do you know I’m from a small town?”

“Honey, you’ve got small town written all over you.” His grin widened as her frown deepened.

“Oh really?”

“The books, the grandma hat, and bag—”

“Grandma hat! I’ll have you know that a nice—”

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, trying not to laugh. “A grandmother.”

She stopped talking for a moment and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Well, yes she is a grandmother. Just not my grandmother. Whatever. It may be a small town, but it’s still close to civilization. Hope’s Crossing is a charming—”

“Hope’s Crossing? What kind of a name is that?”

She narrowed her eyes to slits and gave him a death glare. “It’s a town filled with good old fashioned values, and people who care about each other. Everyone knows everyone—”

“Ugh, that sounds awful.”

“But for your information, I grew up in the city.”

“Really?”

She nodded but looked as though she was ready to shut down that conversation. He realized that whenever she told him something about herself, she seemed to regret it. He wasn’t going to let her off that easy. “Why’d you leave?”

“I like small towns,” she said, crossing her legs and not looking at him.

“I hate them.”

“Of course someone like you would.”

“Someone like me?”

She held out her hand and began rattling off a list on her fingers. “Closed-off, antisocial, miserly—”

“Miserly?” he said, laughing.

“I think we need to get back to deciding what game of cards we’re going to play.”

“I like hearing about you,” he said, knowing she didn’t want to tell him anything more about herself.

She turned her nose and then leaned forward in her chair, unrelenting. “I know what game we can play. How about *? Surely you must be very familiar with *”

He’d never known any woman to openly insult him as much as Hannah. And he liked the sound of her laughter when she joined in with him, and the way it lit up her face and gave him a glimpse of the woman she was when she wasn’t afraid or worried. She was intoxicating. That realization made him stop laughing. “I’m not familiar with that game,” he drawled out, and stood up. He walked over to the liquor cabinet. “Do you want a drink?” He certainly needed one.