Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 18

STELLA

I wake up in a bed I’ve never seen, in a room I’ve never been in, with the type of headache I haven’t experienced in years.

What. The. Heck.

Panic spikes deep in my gut, and I take a quick mental inventory—nothing hurts except my head, and I seem to be wearing all my clothes.

Okay, good. This is good. Some of my initial concern subsides.

But where am I?

I glance around the room, but I don’t see any photographs. It’s pretty generic, with white walls and a poofy gray comforter and a wooden chest of drawers. There are no photos or knick-knacks on top, just a small brown box, so that’s not helpful.

But there’s a closet with an open door…and it’s full of men’s dress shirts .

This is bad. This is bad, bad, bad. I need to figure out where I am and what happened.

There was a clock on the nightstand when I took my cursory look; my eyes fly back to it and discover that it’s six in the evening.

Okay. It’s the evening. So what’s the last thing I remember?

“My clutch,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “Sophronia called about my clutch, and they were having brunch, and Bridget started asking about my job…” My jaw drops as it hits me. “The eggnog. ” I squeeze my eyes shut and rack my brain, trying to pull my fuzzy memories back into focus.

I basically chugged a lot of eggnog, because it’s my favorite, and it was gone by the time I realized it had alcohol. Somebody made a phone call, and then…

You’ve had quite a morning.

I clamp my hand over my mouth to hide the horrified gasp that escapes me.

Jack. Jack came to get me, and I’m pretty sure I cried a lot, and at one point he might have lifted me off the ground?

I think—I think I might even have blown my nose on his shirt. Did that happen?

I twist around and grab the pillow on the bed behind me, holding it up to my face and inhaling deeply. A faint hint of something crisp and spearminty—that’s his smell.

I groan. I am at Jack’s house. I am in Jack’s bed.

“I have to get out of here,” I mutter, scrambling out of bed and almost falling on my face because my foot gets caught in the sheet. Maybe I can sneak out? There’s a window I could go through.

Yes, call me stupid or petty or immature. I don’t care. I cannot face Jack Piorra like this, hungover and mortified and, yes, still reeling from the way he kissed me last night.

Because—I sigh as I finally let myself remember—he didn’t just kiss me. He devoured me. He was hungry and intense and I loved it, and I should not have loved it.

I barely know the man anymore. Sure, he’s intelligent and competent and snarky, and yes, he’s a natural caretaker, and maybe I have a weakness for a man in a doctor’s coat, but?—

“Cut it out,” I say, patting my cheeks firmly. “You just got him back in your life. He doesn’t seem to hate you as much as he could. Don’t make things messy.”

Besides, he might not hate me, but he doesn’t love me, either. He was quick to agree the kiss was a fluke.

I force myself to still and take a deep, steadying breath, because I can only focus on one thing at a time, and right now I need to focus on getting out of here unseen.

Seems a little ungrateful not to say thank you, though. Maybe I could leave a note?

I crane my neck as I look around the room again, until I spot my red clutch on the chair next to the bedside table. I don’t even remember what’s in there besides a tampon and chapstick. I unsnap it and rifle through the contents with deft fingers.

“Ah-ha!” I have a little bitty pad of paper and—a magenta crayon?

How did a crayon get in here?

“Ugh. Fine. ” I scrawl a quick note and stare at it, feeling my humiliation rise even further, but I prop it on his pillow all the same; then I turn my attention to the bedroom window.

Jack broke into Maude Ellery’s house through the window; I can break out of his house through one, too. I am a strong, intelligent woman who knows how to do those things. Besides, we’re on the first floor. How hard could it be?

I examine the window and the frame for a second, my hands on my hips, my brow furrowed. Then, with a quick glance over my shoulder at the closed bedroom door, I turn the window lock. It clicks into place, and I lift the bottom pane. It opens with a lurch so loud that I freeze; after a few seconds of listening, though, I don’t hear Jack, so I hurry on, shivering in the blast of wind that hits me. I open the window as wide as it will go and then step back, examining it again.

It doesn’t open very high.

But it will be fine. I can duck and squeeze. I pop out the screen next, which I do not feel bad about at all, because Jack did the same thing to Maude’s window, and I had to put it back together.

“All right,” I breathe, my gaze wandering around the room one last time to make sure I’ve got everything. I tuck my clutch tight under my arm, inhale deeply, and then begin my escape.

Right foot through the window first. I stick it out and let it dangle. The rest of my body needs to go through next; it’s a tight fit. I scrunch my torso and fold myself down as small as I can.

“Ow,” I mutter as my head hits the window frame. “If I can just—get?—”

But I freeze when I hear the sound that, more than any other sound, I desperately don’t want to hear right now: the click of a door handle.

My head swivels toward the bedroom door, or at least it tries to? —

“Ouch!” I say as it bangs once again into the window frame.

And then comes the voice I least want to hear, the one that belongs to the man I absolutely cannot face right now—incredulous but full of hidden laughter.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing? Dining and dashing?” Slow footsteps; then he speaks again. “Oh, and look! You’ve left me a note. Written in…crayon?”

My cheeks burn, and I contemplate the possibility of just staying here forever so that I never have to look at him again.

“You look a little uncomfortable in there, Princess.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Need some help?”

Jack—

Thanks for picking me up from the café. I think I cried a lot, so sorry if I made a scene.

Also sorry I blew my nose on your shirt.

—Stella Partridge

“I guess I just have a few questions, Stella girl.” Jack’s voice is as cheerful as I’ve ever heard it, possibly in my life; the slight crinkle of paper and shuffle of footsteps tells me he’s approaching me. I try to pull my head out, but even when I manage to stick it back into the room, my body is hunched over so far that all I can really look at is the carpet.

“This note, for example,” Jack goes on, still sounding stupidly happy. He crouches down and waves my note in front of my face. “You signed it with your first and last name. Do you think I know any other Stellas? Do you think there are multiple women named Stella blowing their noses on my shirt? ”

I will come to him in his sleep and stick his finger in warm water so he pees himself. I will shave his head so he wakes up bald. I will haunt him after I die.

“And what about the crayon?” he goes on. “Not that I mind, but this purplish-pink color isn’t really my favorite. Did you not have any blue? Or maybe a nice red?”

“You are dead to me.”

He huffs out a laugh that almost makes me smile in response, but I manage to hold my scowl firmly in place.

“Help me get out of here,” I say, twisting my head at an awkward angle so I can try to sit up straighter. I’m basically straddling the window sill, and my lady bits are uncomfortable.

“This window jams,” Jack says. His shirt brushes my forehead as he steps closer, and a few seconds later the window lurches further open, giving me room to unfold my body.

Jack holds out his hand, and I take it, holding on tight to balance while I get my leg back in and then deposit both of my feet firmly on the bedroom floor.

“Thank you,” I say, out of breath. There’s a grumpy ache in my lower back; I rub it, wincing, and then make myself look at Jack. “I woke up in your bed and sort of freaked out.”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, looking amused. “And you thought you could go out through the window.”

“So I wouldn’t have to see you,” I clarify.

He folds his arms and leans against the wall by the window, his head tilted, his eyes sparkling. “But you left a note…?”

“It seemed rude not to thank you for taking me home when I was—you know.” I clear my throat. “Drunk.”

At this, his little smile fades, and worry pulls his lips into a concerned frown. “Yeah. You were pretty wasted.” He eases his expression into something more casual, but it doesn’t quite match the worry still in his eyes. “Uh, do you remember much?”

“Some,” I admit. “But not everything. I remember you came to get me, and Benny was there? And I’m pretty sure I cried a lot.”

“That’s it?” he says, his voice strangely insistent.

“I think so,” I say slowly. “Why? Did something happen?”

Oh no. Did I kiss him or something?

But he shakes his head. “No,” he says, sounding relieved. “Nothing.” He pauses. “I do need to tell you something, though.”

“What?” I say. He looks so serious that I find myself suddenly as nervous as he seems.

He inhales deeply, studying me like he’s hesitant, and then nods. “I saw you,” he says. “At the church. Coming out of—” He breaks off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Coming out of the AA meeting,” he finally says, shooting me an apologetic look.

And for several long seconds, all I can do is stare at him.

“You…saw me,” I say slowly, stupidly, as I rack my memory. “At the AA meeting… oh. ” My eyes widen, and I snap. “You were the guy who passed me in the hall! Right? Was that you?”

He sighs. “Yeah. I didn’t realize it was actually you until I learned you were back in town. But you drank a lot earlier. And your recovery is your business,” he adds, holding up his hands. “But…I have access to a lot of great resources if you need help.”

Something giddy rises in my stomach—something absurdly, ridiculously like laughter. “So let me get this straight,” I say as the truth of the situation hits me, because I remember his strange questions about the Christmas party, the ones that didn’t make sense. “You’re worried…because you think I’m a recovering alcoholic. And I was drunk earlier. So naturally a relapse is possible.”

The concern on his face shifts into something like confusion. “I—yes,” he says, his voice halting. “Is that—” He breaks off, frowning as his eyes narrow. “Hang on. What’s going on here?”

“I was lost, ” I say, my smile finally breaking free. The cold, crisp air continues to seep into the room through the open window next to us, but I barely notice. “In the basement of the church. I went into the wrong room and realized it wasn’t where I was supposed to be, so I booked it out of there.”

He just looks at me for a second, his dark eyes widening, his stupidly perfect jaw gaping.

And then he throws his head back and laughs.

He laughs louder and freer than I’ve seen in many, many years, and it’s an incredible sound—one that warms me despite the bite of the winter evening outside. He wipes actual tears of mirth from his eyes, and it takes him a good thirty seconds to calm down.

Then he looks at me, a little smile still playing on his lips, his gaze still alight with humor. “Delightful,” he murmurs.

Something flutters in my chest, tiny bubbles of… something. I swallow those feelings and look away, resisting the urge to press my hands to my cheeks so they’ll cool down.

“You said I was beautiful, and now I’m delightful too?” I say lightly. “I’m flattered.”

I see his smile fade in the corner of my eye, and when I glance back at him, some of the humor is gone from his gaze, too.

“Don’t be,” he says in a dry voice. “I already told you you wouldn’t get special treatment just because you’re pretty.”

“Mmm,” I say, nodding slowly. “You’re surrounded by pretty women every day, I imagine. A bunch of cute little nurses in their cute little scrubs.”

“Sure am. Madge is especially adorable.” He cocks one brow at me. “Why? Feeling jealous?”

“No,” I say, bristling as I twist the hem of my shirt between my fingers. “I just think that if you called me beautiful , you shouldn’t downgrade me to pretty now.”

He pushes off the wall, and the challenge in his expression as he steps closer sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.

“What exactly are you trying to say, Princess?” he says softly.

Good question. I swallow. “Nothing,” I say.

His voice is softer still when he goes on, “Are you trying to flirt with me?”

My jaw drops. “I—no! No way. You just said beautiful , and then you said pretty , and they’re different. That’s all. I—never mind.” I clear my throat. “It’s stupid. I don’t actually care.” I give in and press my hands to my burning cheeks as Jack steps closer still.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice even, his gaze locked on mine. “Occasionally delightful.” Then he pauses, his eyes dropping to my lips. “But hardly irresistible.”

“Not handsome enough to tempt you?” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.

And even though a smirk flits over his face, his gaze doesn’t stray—it’s still fixed on my lips.

“Definitely not,” he murmurs. Then he takes a deep breath, and the spell is broken; his gaze jerks away from me all together, and he turns on his heel and heads toward the door. “And a bad judge of Christmas beverages,” he says without looking back. “Come get something to eat, and then explain yourself.”

“Jack,” I call right as he passes out of the room.

He stops in place but doesn’t say anything.

“You’re—very handsome too,” I say lamely. “Or attractive. Whatever.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “You’ve already told me that.”

“I know,” I say, feeling dumber by the second. “Just—thought it bore repeating.”

Slowly, he turns around. “And?” he says, raising one eyebrow at me.

I blink at him. “And…what?” I say. “Are you expecting more?”

His shoulders jerk into a little shrug. “Earlier you gave me quite the compliment. You said I was an amazing kisser.”

My jaw drops. “I never ?—”

“Only you actually said, and I quote,” he cuts me off, “that I was an ‘ah-may-ay-ay-zing’ kisser?—”

He dodges the pillow I fling at him and then darts away, down the hall, laughing the whole time.