Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 24

JACK

It’s been a long, long, long time since I’ve spent Christmas Eve with anyone who feels like family. And for so many years I thought I was doing okay on my own, but this feeling, this warmth that comes from spending the holiday with people I love and who love me…

That’s irreplaceable. I can’t believe I forgot what it feels like. This home is cozy, full of cheer and laughter and joy. Mr. Partridge can’t carry a tune to save his life, but that doesn’t stop him from singing all over the house, and Mrs. Partridge and Stella are sneaking just as much cookie dough as they’re baking. Nobody is angry or tense; nobody is arguing. It’s easy and relaxing and perfect.

I could get a million cats, and they still wouldn’t bring this kind of warmth.

As much as I love the Partridges, however, and as much as I love their home and the atmosphere they’ve created, I could do with less of one thing: mistletoe .

I’m not exaggerating when I say it is everywhere, and I am struggling. I can’t turn around without seeing a sprig, much less passing beneath it.

It’s hanging from the light fixtures, for goodness’ sake.

It’s a good thing I didn’t make that promise to Stella, that I wouldn’t think non-friendly thoughts. It would have been impossible to keep anyway, but with mistletoe everywhere I look…

Well. Let’s just say at this point I’m basically living in the memory of our kiss—our first kiss.

Because there’s been more than one.

Because I am an idiot.

Take me on a date.

The words play on repeat in my head, accompanied by the open, earnest, painfully hopeful expression on Stella’s face when she said it.

It’s such a simple request, and yet it doesn’t feel simple at all—it feels like the culmination of years of pent-up longing and denial, and I don’t know how to handle that.

So I try to focus on the present instead, try to pay attention to the food I’m helping prepare and the questions I’m answering. Mr. and Mrs. Partridge want to know all about my work and my life; I try to steer conversation away from the latter topic, because there’s not much in my life worth reporting on at the moment, other than Stella.

And that is a conversation I’m not ready to have—with her parents, anyway.

I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have that conversation with her, though. What would I even say? How would I explain my thoughts, my feelings? I can’t very well tell her the truth; it sounds absurd, even to me.

Yes, Stella, even though we haven’t seen each other in years, it would appear that I am still utterly obsessed with you. However, I go back and forth between dreaming about you and trying to reassure myself that I actually don’t have feelings for you, because…

Because what?

Because I’m scared?

Because I lost my mother and my father and to some extent you, and I’m not sure I could survive loving you only to lose you again?

I grimace and knead the dough in my bowl a little harder. I could really use Dr. Barb right now—except, of course, I already know what she would say.

She would tell me to move forward and stop trying to control every aspect of my life.

I punch down the dough with more force.

“Ah,” Stella says from next to me, looking vaguely concerned. “I’ll take that, okay?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond; she just pulls the large metal bowl down the counter toward her. “I think my dad might have an old punching bag in the basement if you need one.”

“Sorry,” I say with a sigh. “No, I’m good.”

She hums, a skeptical sound, and when I shoot another glance at her, her brows are pinched in the middle as she looks at me.

“I’m good,” I say again, with more feeling this time. “Just got lost in thought for a second. But I’m really fine.” I gesture to the kitchen; we have a rare moment alone, so I go on in a low voice, “This is great. Your family, your parents—they’re great. I forgot how much I liked them.”

“They are,” Stella says with an enthusiastic nod. “They’re the best. I mean”—she laughs lightly, and the sound isn’t entirely without bitterness—“they let me move back here after I fell flat on my face, didn’t they?”

A grimace settles over my lips. “Did you tell them everything that happened?”

“Of course,” she says, and she begins kneading the dough properly. “I needed somebody to tell me I wasn’t crazy. But they were mostly just angry on my behalf.”

“ I’m angry on your behalf,” I mutter.

Her laugh is more real this time. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I’m trying to move on. It’s a skill I’m trying to learn—how to fail properly.”

“That’s all well and good,” I say, heated now, “but you didn’t fail, Stella. Failure is when you mess up and it’s your fault. That might happen to you in the future. But this time—” I break off, shaking my head. “This wasn’t a failure on your part. It was a failure on the company’s.”

She sobers, her smile fading as her eyes glaze with what might be tears. Her hands cease their bread-kneading as she speaks.

“But what if it was my fault?” she says, the words almost a whisper.

“Did you knowingly break the law? Did you knowingly break any rules?” I say. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until my words bury deep and settle in her soul, but I know that’s not the best way to handle this conversation. So I keep my voice steady and gentle.

“I don’t think so,” she says, her voice breaking.

I nod. “Did you know Nathan was married and flirt with him anyway?”

“No.”

“Then you haven’t failed, Stella.” I reach over and tuck her hair behind her ear, since her hands are covered in flour and dough—although I realize at the last second that mine are too. I do it anyway. “You didn’t fail. You will someday; we all do. But this time, you haven’t failed.”

She blinks rapidly and begins working the dough again, but after a moment of hesitation, she gives me a sharp jerk of the head.

It’s her call, how she handles the situation, so even though I’m tempted to demand she open a lawsuit against Smith and Sons, I don’t. “Any ideas on new jobs so far?” I say instead, because it might be best to change the subject now. And it’s stupid, the way my pulse suddenly jumps at this question like an Olympic athlete clearing a hurdle.

But what if she decides to leave Lucky? Or, equally as scary, what if she decides to stay?

“I’ve got a few,” she says, clearing her throat. We both pretend we don’t notice the single tear trickling down her cheek. “I didn’t expect—” She breaks off, glances at me, and then looks back at the dough in front of her. “I didn’t expect to like being back here so much, but I do. So I’ve been considering looking for work in Boulder. I haven’t done it yet,” she adds quickly. “But…I’m thinking about it.”

A question blooms in the space between us then, unspoken but deafeningly loud at the same time: How do I feel about that?

It’s a good question. Judging by the jubilant cartwheels my stomach is doing, I’d say I like the idea.

“Well, we’re always happy to have you here,” I say instead of begging her to stay. Because what I think shouldn’t have any bearing on what she decides, especially when I have so many commitment issues.

We continue to drift around the kitchen, joined every now and then by Mrs. Partridge—who, I have a sneaking suspicion, is trying to give us alone time. I appreciate it, as much for Stella’s sake as for mine. Once the conversation has moved on to other topics, though, she’s fine again, her smiles genuine, her laughter sincere. We convene in the living room to play games after an hour or so, and dinner is ready a few hours after that.

I know for a fact I haven’t eaten so well in years. My dad hired a cook when I was younger; she made pretty good food. But this is different, and I can’t get enough. I think I’ll probably gain ten pounds from this meal.

I glance up just as I’m finishing my slice of apple pie, only to find Stella watching me with a little smile playing at her lips. A few strands of hair have fallen into her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“What?” I say blankly. “Why are you smiling?”

She hums and then leans closer, lifting one hand. With a quick swipe of her thumb over the corner of my mouth, she pulls away and holds it up.

“Oh,” I say when I spot some of the apple filling. “I didn’t realize I was such a messy eater?—”

But I break off when her tongue darts out and licks her thumb clean.

For a second I just stare at her. “There are napkins for situations like that,” I finally say, pulling my eyes away and clearing my throat.

“This tastes better,” she says, and I swear her eyes flash with humor.

She’s flirting with me.

I can’t stop the curl of my lips, but I don’t say anything in return; her parents are sitting right next to us, and all the responses dancing on my tongue are completely inappropriate anyway. So I just hold my silence and look at her instead—at the teasing glint in her gaze as she dares me to play this game with her.

I want to. Desperately. I want to dive into everything she offers; I want to drown in her eyes and never resurface.

“Well, I have to say,” Mr. Partridge says with a contented sigh—I startle and look guiltily away from Stella—“that was the best Christmas Eve feast I’ve ever had.”

“You say that every year,” Mrs. Partridge says, but she looks pleased.

“This year it’s true,” he says as he pats his stomach. “Leave all the dishes here; I’ll do them in a minute, as soon as this food has settled in my stomach.”

Mrs. Partridge nods and then waves her hand at Stella and me. “Why don’t you kids go for a walk or something?” she says, glancing out the window at the snowy evening. “Get some fresh air; start the digestion process.”

My gaze jumps to Stella’s before I’ve even thought about it. And I know, without knowing how I know, that my fate is sealed.

If I go with her now, we’ll be having the conversation we’ve both been hovering around—the conversation I’ve been running from.

Something settles in my chest as I look at her, this woman I can’t get enough of. Then I nod and stand up. I know I’m not imagining her surprise, but she stands too.

“Get your jacket on,” I tell her. “It’s cold.”

“Always so bossy,” she mutters—but she puts her coat on all the same, and with that, we head for the front door. It creaks open, and we step out into the falling twilight.

We walk in silence for probably ten minutes before either of us speaks. The evening is silent, but every house we pass is lit warmly from within; there are more cars lining the streets than is probably usual, too. This, it seems, is a gathering place.

And I wonder, for maybe the first time, where my gathering place is—where I retreat when I’m wounded, where I return when I’m tired, where I celebrate when I’m triumphant.

Do I have one?

I shake my head before the question has even disappeared from my mind. I have been my own gathering place for so long that I don’t remember what it’s like to go anywhere else.

Stella stops in her tracks next to me, and I stop too, startled from my thoughts. We’ve halted not in front of a house but in front of a stretch of trees, too sparse to be called woods but more than two or three. Their skeletal arms reach eerily into the dusky sky, gilded with snow.

I turn to look at Stella just as she speaks.

“Give me one good reason you can’t go on a date with me,” she says. She holds up her pointer finger. “One single reason. Because you like me, Jack. And I like you. So if you have a reason, tell me. At least then I can—” She breaks off, laughing bitterly. “I can move on, or something.”

No.

I inhale deeply, the air so cold in my lungs I almost cough. Then I open my mouth and tell her the painful, pathetic truth. “I don’t…have a good reason.”

She cocks her eyebrows at me, so I go on, even though every word tastes like shame and bitter self-loathing.

“I don’t have a good reason,” I grit out. “Except that—” I sigh. “I’m scared, okay? I’m just—afraid. And I don’t know how much time I can devote to a relationship. I don’t know if I want to get married?—”

“Whoa,” she cuts me off, her eyes widening. She holds both hands up; I should have brought gloves for her. “Who said anything about marriage? I’m talking about one single date, just to see how it goes?—”

“If I date you, I’m going to marry you,” I say, throwing my arms up in exasperation. “Good grief, Princess. Do you think I can date you and then let you go?”

She stares at me, her eyes even wider now. “I—what?”

I close the distance between us in one long step. “Do you think I can take you on just one date? ” I say, my voice low. “And what then—do you think I could spend weeks, months, years with you, only to send you on your way, off to find someone else to spend your life with?” I shake my head, laughing without humor. “I’m not ready for the way I feel about you, Stella. You’re not ready for the way I feel about you.”

For several eternal seconds, the world is silent around us; the crystal night is dark and still, my pulse is frozen in my veins. Then it all rushes back in as, finally, she speaks.

“Tell me.”

It’s barely an exhale, soft and short, and it’s not a demand—it’s a plea.

And I stare at her as my chest rips itself into pieces, as my heart tries to leave the confines of my ribcage.

How do I speak these words to her? How do I speak them to myself?

I take one deep, shuddering breath. “I want you,” I say haltingly, “more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. Body, mind, and soul—all of your laughs and your cries and everything in between. I want them. You”—my voice cracks pathetically—“ you are my heartbeat. ”

There it is: the truth I’ve been running from, hiding from, avoiding like the plague. It hangs between us for several seconds as Stella’s eyes widen slowly.

“Oh,” she says faintly after one long moment. “You—you love me.”

“I don’t know how to answer that,” I mutter. Love feels like such a big commitment, such an enormous word.

But it’s a word that has wings. My feelings for Stella are deep, and true, and idiotically unconditional.

I may be a lone wolf, but Stella…

Stella is the moon I’ve always howled at.

Is that love?

She continues to stare at me, her beautiful eyes bright, her cheeks rosy. “You would die for me,” she breathes.

“Without hesitation,” I say, and I know it’s true.

“You would kill for me,” she goes on. “You would break the Hippocratic Oath for me?—”

“Stop talking nonsense,” I growl, stepping closer and pressing my hand over her mouth. Then I frown. “Your skin is too cold.” I put my other hand on her face, rubbing her cheeks.

Some of the lightness fades from her eyes, replaced by the same gravity I’m feeling. She opens her mouth to speak, and I know what she’s going to say before the words come out.

“The phone call,” she says; it’s not a question.

And good grief. She can’t let this one go, can she?

“It was me,” I say impatiently, rolling my eyes. “Of course it was me?—”

But I break off when her lips find mine in a searing kiss.

STELLA

Kissing Jack is not like kissing anyone else. He’s not even kissing me back at this exact moment, and I still can tell the difference.

I break away from him, placing my hands on his shoulders and stepping back so I can look him in the eye.

“You’re in, or you’re out,” I say. I take a deep breath and then go on. “I’m sorry I can’t promise to give you time to come around on your own.”

The Serenity Prayer once again drifts through my mind— the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I know the difference. I can’t change Jack; I can’t force him to get past his hang-ups, and it would be stupid to try. I’m not going to put my life on hold for something that might never happen.

I have things to do; I have a new person to become. And I haven’t met her yet, but I can already tell she’s going to be pretty great. She’ll know how to get up when she falls. She’ll understand what’s her fault and what isn’t.

She’ll understand those things because I’ll tell her, every day, in the mirror.

My grip on Jack’s shoulders tightens as he looks down at me, his gaze dancing over my face. I’m just opening my mouth to go on when he speaks.

“I’m in,” he breathes.

I freeze as my heart leaps. “I—are you sure?” It’s all I can manage .

“As sure as I’m capable of,” he says, and the most incredible thing happens then: a smile stretches across his face, so brilliant and genuine that it’s like the sun is rising from below the horizon. “But—are you sure?”

I almost cry out when that smile disappears.

“Are you sure?” he says again, looking seriously at me. His hands grasp my waist and tug me closer, snaking around me when our bodies collide. “I want to love you, Princess,” he says hoarsely. “I want to worship you. Are you ready for that?”

“No,” I say firmly as my mind reels and my heart flutters like crazy. “You will kindly take things as slow as I need, or I will steal every one of Maude Ellery’s portraits and hang them all in your bedroom.”

His dark eyes dance with laughter as his lips curl into a grin. “Breaking out the big guns, I see.”

I slide my hands up his chest and slowly twine my arms around his neck. “Absolutely. I know what it takes to keep you in check.”

His grin widens as he leans down, his lips brushing lightly over mine. “Do you?”

I nod and kiss him again, leaning into him now; my arms tighten as I push my hands into his hair. He kisses me back, his lips taking over as they move with mine, hungry and full of longing—and I simply don’t think it’s possible for anyone else on the face of this planet to kiss me the way Jack does. No one else could hold me like this—tightly, desperately, yet somehow gently, as though I might break.

I won’t. I might bend sometimes; I might stumble and fall and scrape my knees. But no matter what happens, I won’t break.

I refuse to break .

I appreciate his care all the same, the way his hands cradle my face tenderly, the way he gasps for breath like he would rather continue kissing me than break apart for even a second.

“You taste like apple pie,” he murmurs a moment later, something dazed in his words. “Better than apple pie. How is it possible—” But then his lips are on mine again, voices forgotten, the strokes of his mouth devouring as he deepens the kiss.

Above our heads, I imagine, our mingled breaths float lazily into the night sky to dance with the stars.