The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

RYAN

I’m in trouble.

Anabelle held my hand during the entire inspection as if I were her lifeline, and I didn’t want to let go. Hell, I wish I were still holding her hand.

I haven’t done more than kiss her, but I’ve never felt like this with a woman before. It’s overwhelming and exhausting and incredibly sexually frustrating, to be honest. Because she’s always there, within touching distance, but I’ve told myself I can’t touch her.

Everyone’s tired on Monday night, and the evening passes in a blur. Tuesday’s another blur—I spend an extra-long morning at the gym, and when I get back Cynthia is already gone and Anabelle and Joe are setting up their office. They confirm that no one has heard from the inspector yet.

There’s nothing obvious for me to do, so I drive around and look for restaurants that have Help Wanted signs posted. There are a couple, but the chefs are looking for experienced help, which I’m not.

In the back of my head, a voice tells me it’s time to go. It insists that my usefulness is wearing out, and it’s time for me to pony up the ornament and then man up and visit Jake.

The thoughts are like an itch at the back of my brain—I can’t get rid of them, they’re annoying, and I also can’t bring myself to give in to them. The thought of hanging the ornament on the tree or leaving it at Anabelle’s door and simply walking out leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

So I’m more than ready for a distraction by the time I meet up with Jeremy at the Green Leafe Café. I arranged to get a drink with him for a few reasons, one of them being that Cynthia asked me to. Another being that I like Jeremy, so I think it’ll be a good time.

Despite its name, the place has a bar atmosphere, with a long wooden bar at the rear of the room, along with some booths to the left and group seating at a large rectangular table next to the bar. There are a few mounted TVs that add to the atmosphere.

Jeremy’s already waiting when I get there, wearing his street clothes—a green William & Mary hoodie and jeans.

“Fuck me,” he says with a grin as I approach the bar where he’s waiting on a stool. “It’s the Grinch himself.”

“In the flesh.”

“Thought you’d be greener.” He slides his full pint glass around in a circle, then nods to the bartender, who comes over and asks me what I’d like as I settle onto one of the stools. I order a local red ale on tap.

“This is on me,” I tell Jeremy with a nod. “I did some research. I know how much of a deal you and your uncle cut us.”

More than twenty percent.

He angles his head. “I don’t like what that guy is pulling on Anabelle.”

“Neither do I,” I agree as the bartender brings me my brew. “I expect more trouble from the inspector. There was something dodgy about him.” I can’t put my finger on what, exactly, other than that Weston obviously sent him. But my gut was screaming at me the whole time he poked around the inn.

“I don’t disagree,” Jeremy says, “but we’ll all be around to keep an eye on her.”

I feel a swell of gratitude. I haven’t known a lot of people who’d bend over backward for someone they’re not bound to by duty or law. Maybe because all the people who were like that lived in Williamsburg, VA, for some damn reason. “Thank you, man. I appreciate it.”

We shoot the shit for a while. He tells me about his troubles. There’s not a lot of steady work as a trumpet player that doesn’t involve playing the same song multiple times a day, every day, until he’s bored of himself. I share a bit about mine, keeping things vague, for obvious reasons.

“Sorry, man,” he says after I tell him about falling out with my brother.

“So am I.”

We’ve been sitting at the bar for about forty-five minutes when a pretty blonde woman approaches Jeremy with a big grin on her face. “You’re the one from that video,” she says, then glances back at a table of four other women who are giggling. They look old enough to be drinking here, but barely. Seniors in college maybe, or grad students. It’s miserable outside, so cold your breath is foggy even before it leaves your nose, but there’s only maybe three sleeves among them.

“Sure am,” Jeremy says with plenty of swagger, his gaze tracking to the table and back.

“Do you care to settle a bet for me and my friends?” she asks.

“Anything to help a lady.”

She looks like she’s holding back laughter as she asks, “Do they give you a codpiece as part of your uniform?”

“No.” He waggles his eyebrows. “They absolutely do not. That was one hundred percent natural.”

She gushes laughter, then says, “Why don’t you two come join us at our table? We’d love a little company.”

I have no interest in sitting around with a bunch of barely legal women when there’s a chance that I could go home and possibly find Anabelle still in the parlor. I still think I should stay away from her, for her sake and also Grandma Edith’s, but she’s the woman I want. There’s no changing that. No substituting her with anyone else.

So I’m about to excuse myself, but Jeremy speaks first. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m here with my friend. But you do me a favor and share that video.”

Interesting. Cynthia’s question may have just been answered for me.

The blonde pushes her bottom lip out, probably hoping she can still convince him, but he says, “You have a good night now,” and she steps away from us.

He gives me a self-conscious shrug. “If that video goes viral…well, you never know. Maybe some brass band will want me.”

“Not into blondes?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

He swears under his breath. “Did Cynthia say something about me keeping her from dyeing her hair? Because, I swear to Christ, she doesn’t know how to do half of the things she thinks she’s an expert at. She’d probably fry her hair off. Besides, they’d fire her if it’s an obvious dye job. People didn’t peroxide their hair in the 1600s.”

I grin at him, knowing this means I have something good to tell Anabelle. I don’t know fuck all about Cynthia’s plans for her hair, but Jeremy just confirmed that he likes her enough to listen to her talk about them.

“Cynthia? No, man. I have no knowledge about Cynthia and her hair.”

He smirks. “No, you’re too busy drooling over Anabelle to notice.”

“The good things in life don’t come easy,” I say, not bothering to argue with him. We can both see right through each other, and even though I don’t know why he’s holding back with Cynthia, and he doesn’t know why I’m holding back with Anabelle, that’s okay. At this particular moment, we share an understanding.

“I like you, man,” I say as I lift my glass to his.

“I like you too. Now, we gotta find you a job other than shoveling horse shit and seasonal work so you can stick around.”

Sticking around isn’t part of my plan, but for some reason I don’t correct him.

When I return to the B&B, I’m disappointed to find the parlor empty.

It’s unchanged from this morning, not that I expected otherwise. We haven’t started the Great Santa Moveout yet, but I’ve already amused myself by thinking of where I’m going to hide the little fuckers for the scavenger hunt. Hanging from the vents. Peeking up from storage containers. Hiding behind plants. Of course, I’m not allowed to play with any of the valuable ones, but it’s open season for the ones on Anabelle’s list. I think adults might enjoy the scavenger hunt too.

I peer up at Grandma Edith’s photo.

I’m sorry , I want to tell her. I didn’t mean to fall for her, but I’m doing my best not to mess everything up. I’m trying here.

Sighing, I head upstairs, my mind a mess. I’m thinking of that ornament, nestled in its box in the top of my closet. I’m thinking about Weston and his grudge against Anabelle and how far he might be willing to go. And, dear God, I’m thinking about Anabelle—her wavy hair and her little sighs. The dreamy expression on her face when she’s happy. The way her lips felt against mine, so soft and sweet, tentative but needy…

I need to tell her she’s a good kisser.

I need to tell her that I haven’t thought about anything else but her since it happened.

To do that, I have to talk to her privately. It could wait until tomorrow, to be sure, but she’ll want to know what happened with Jeremy, right? It wouldn’t be right to keep her in suspense.

My mind slides back to the ornament.

That’s another thing I’ve screwed up. I should have given it to her that first night, and I should definitely give it to her now. But if I do, she might tell me to go, and the thought of leaving now, before we even know what Weston has planned, is suddenly unacceptable.

I pause at the top of the stairs, my gaze sliding from my door to hers and back. My fingers itching with indecision.

Bracing myself, I step toward her door and knock.

A few seconds later, she opens the door wearing an old-fashioned, floor-length white nightgown. It looks like the kind of thing someone in the seventeenth century might have worn. Somehow it’s also the sexiest outfit I’ve ever seen, especially since she’s not wearing a bra, and I can see her nipples pressing against the fabric as if they’re desperate for someone to let them out. Now, that’s a job I’d be good at.

Saint Nick has joined her and is sitting at her feet, but he and I seem to have reached a new truce now that he’s humped me. We’ve established that I’m his bitch, basically.

“Ryan?” she says, her voice a little husky. Her eyes are heavy-lidded.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“I must have dozed off,” she says and then yawns. “Would you like to come in?”

Fuck, yes, I would. But I can tell she asked it innocently, without having any idea of the effect she’s having on me. If I were to enter that room, I’d feel like a wolf invited in by Red Riding Hood.

I shift on my feet. “I…shouldn’t. It’s just…I thought you’d like to hear about what happened tonight. I’m pretty sure Jeremy has a thing for Cynthia. A bunch of attractive women invited us over to their table, and he didn’t want to go. He would have gone over if he was unattached.”

The sleepiness has faded from her face, her eyes becoming sharper and more alert. “And did you go over?”

I swallow, fighting the urge to back her into that room and lower my mouth to the thin, slightly translucent fabric of her nightgown and run my tongue over her nipple.

“Uh, no.” I pause, knowing I should get the hell out of there, but first I need to clear up the kiss misunderstanding. Because there’s no way I want her thinking she’s anything but the most desirable woman in the world. “I had no interest in those women. I suppose I’m still thinking about…well. Just so you know, our kiss was the most memorable kiss of my life.”

“Because it was bad?”

I can tell from the look in her eyes that she doesn’t really believe it, thankfully, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a step toward her. Saint Nick comes out and circles my legs, rubbing against my calf.

“Because it was you . I like you, Anabelle. I didn’t come here meaning to like you, but you’re so damn likeable, I could barely help it.”

Her hand lifts to her throat, moving over all the places I’d like to kiss her.

“Now, I know that’s not true,” she says with a soft, self-conscious laugh.

“Did Weston make you think that? Your father?” I take another step closer, pulled in by my need to be near her warmth.

“Life made me think it, Ryan.” Sadness passes through her eyes and she takes a step back. “Look, I’m glad you’re here. You don’t need to make me feel better about the kiss. I understand why you don’t want it to happen again. You’re probably right.”

I can tell she doesn’t understand. It might be better, for her sake, if she assumes I brushed her off because I don’t have feelings for her. I’m a man who messes things up. An asshole who hurts people even though I don’t mean to. A man who has nothing to offer to a woman but his body. But I can’t let her think that. I can’t .

“I like you,” I say again, firmly. “I like you because you’re beautiful, and kind, and funny, and smart. Your father was only right about one thing in his whole life, because you are the star on every tree. The most noticeable part. The brightest. No one is like you, and I’m happy no one else is like you, because it makes it more special to know you. But I also think the world would be a better place if everyone was like you.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything at first. She just reaches for my hand, and I give it to her.

“Come in and shut the door,” she says.

When she tugs me inside, it feels like she’s saving me from something, even though it’s only myself.

I close the door, feeling numb but hopeful. Feeling everything .

When I turn, she’s right in front of me. Saint Nick is nearby, but he’s keeping a respectful distance, like he’s giving us the chance to figure out our shit. There’s a future treat with his name written all over it.

“I know you think you can’t stay,” she says slowly.

“You won’t want me to stay once you know everything about me.” I run my hands through my hair, frustrated.

“Why don’t you tell me, and allow me to decide?”

“I don’t want you to tell me to leave before we figure out what Weston and the inspector are planning.”

“What could be so awful?” she asks, her eyes wide. “You said you didn’t murder anyone, and I know better than to think you’re some kind of sexual deviant.”

I scoff. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Your nightgown is giving me thoughts .”

“This nightgown?” she asks, baffled. “This belonged to my grandmother.”

I laugh into my hand. “You know. You think that’d put me off, but it doesn’t. You don’t look like anyone’s grandmother in it. I can see your nipples.”

She crosses her arms over her chest.

I place my fingers on her arm, tentative. “Don’t. It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Besides, there’s nothing you could do to cure my mind. It’s never been clean in this room.”

“Even when you were eating cat treats?” she teases, her voice breathy.

“Five minutes later, you were sucking on a candy cane. What do you think?”

Heat flares through me. I’m painfully aware of her as she stands there in that innocent little nightgown, so tempting my hands are shaking with the need to touch her.

“I’m not some untouched virgin, Ryan,” she says, a touch of schoolmarm in her voice. “I’ve had plenty of sex.”

“I don’t want to think about him touching you.” It makes me want to stalk over to Weston’s house and break in just so I can beat the shit out of him.

“He’s not the only person I’ve slept with. I’m twenty-eight.”

“I don’t want to think about anyone else touching you.”

She licks her bottom lip. If she were any other woman, I’d wonder if she were doing it on purpose to make me feel overcome, but I know better. This is just Anabelle—and by being herself, she is effortlessly the sexiest woman I’ve ever met.

“I don’t want to think about other women touching you, either. I’m positive there have been quite a few more of them.”

I hang my head, feeling like an asshole again.

“There’ve been a lot,” I admit. It takes me a few beats before I find it in me to look her in the eye again. “I’m not smart like you are. But I’ve always been good on my feet and liked working out. That’s all women have ever wanted me for.”

“Your body,” she says softly.

“Yeah.” I swallow, feeling self-conscious. I’ve felt this way before, but I sure as shit haven’t told anyone. For one thing, any guy who complains about all the women he gets with isn’t going to get a pat on the back and a lollipop. For another, saying this shit makes me feel raw, like my skin has been peeled off.

I wait to see if she’s going to pour on the salt.

“I appreciate your body. Anyone would.” Anabelle runs her fingers gently over my bicep and down my arm to my hand, which she squeezes. Then she lifts her hand to my face, running her fingertips over my cheek and my lips, each stroke filling me with need. They stop on my scar, which she rubs softly before lowering her hand. “But not as much as your heart.”

“I don’t have anything to give you.” It’s a lie. I have the ornament right next door, in my closet. But if I give it to her now, she may ask me to leave.

My heart speeds up, and sweat beads across my brow.

I don’t want to leave her. But I’m stuck between two choices, and only one of them makes me an asshole.

The other might save me.

“Actually, there is something I need to give you,” I say. “Right now. Can you wait right here?”