Page 23 of The Rules We Broke
I hated this town.
***
After the banking ordeal, I sped through town toward Aunt Lu’s house—technically mine now—just in time for the arrival of three freshly cut Christmas trees.
Aunt Lu had also ordered fresh garland for every mantel.
I let the delivery crew in and pointed them toward their respective destinations. Each tree had a theme.
The one in the foyer—orange and blue. Always orange and blue.
The tree in the family room was decked in crisp white—lights, ribbon, the works.
But the drawing room tree . . . that one was my favorite. It held ornaments from around the world, collected over the years during our travels. They represented a lifetime of beautiful memories.
Doris was off, so I had the house to myself. Once again, I was alone with my thoughts, and they centered on that insufferable Brady Jackson. My aunt was going to get an earful from me tomorrow. She could have at least given me a warning I might see him. And why did he have to be so dang nice to me? Ex-boyfriends should be cold and indifferent. They shouldn’t look fabulous in their suits and ties, and they shouldn’t call you Ellie. Worst of all, they shouldn’t be perfect.
I peeled off the suit and rummaged through my old closet. I hadn’t packed anything remotely appropriate for tree decorating—everything I brought was too nice to risk sap stains or ornament glitter.
Thankfully, Aunt Lu never threw anything away. And somehow, I could still fit into my high school jeans. Small miracle, really. I tugged them on, slid into my faded Auburn jersey, and made my way up to the attic.
I began pulling down box after box filled with ribbons and lights. Glass globes wrapped in tissue as old as some of the ornaments themselves.
I didn’t know why she insisted on decking out the house. She rarely entertained anymore. I was sure she would say,“Because that’s what Southern women do.”
It took me an hour to haul all the boxes out and set them in the appropriate rooms. By then, my stomach was growling loudly enough to be embarrassing.
I prayed Doris had left something in the fridge. She knew I was a disaster in the kitchen.
I headed toward the kitchen, but the doorbell rang. Without thinking, I turned around and—just like I used to—slid across the marble entryway in my socks. It made me smile. For one glorious second, it felt good to be home.
Then, I had to go and open the large mahogany door.
And the smile vanished.
“Brady,” I sighed. “What are you doing here?”
Brady looked me over—old jeans, faded Auburn jersey. He probably recognized them. Pieces of the girl he used to know.
I followed his gaze down, and that’s when I saw her. A tiny ginger-haired girl, maybe five, peeked around his leg with wide, expectant eyes.
“Well,” he said, a little sheepishly, “I was telling my niece her favorite author was in town . . . and she insisted we come over and meet you.”
I looked again at her sweet face. Bright eyes. Missing front tooth. She was absolutely darling.
It was then that I realized this was a setup. I had a feeling I was about to be blackmailed—by a five-year-old and her uncle.
I smiled despite myself. “What’s your name, sugar?” I always loved the term of endearment I’d learned from my aunt.
She grinned, practically beaming. “I’m Caroline Jackson.”
Oh.
Not a niece by marriage. Not from his wife’s side. Which meant Brady wasn’t married. Not that it mattered. There were rules, and Jackson men couldn’t be trusted. He’d proved that. But that also meant one of Brady’s brothers had had an oops. Just like Brady had been. He was the baby by a long shot.
“Well, Caroline Jackson,” I said, opening the door fully, knowing it was best to just give in and get this over with—besides, she was too cute to turn away, “would you like to come in?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
