The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ANABELLE

Tuesday, December 9, 16 days until Christmas

State of mind: Confused and very turned on

Is Ryan getting a condom?

Do I want him to get a condom?

I want to kiss him, and yes, to do more with him, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. I can tell that sex with Ryan would change everything, and so much is already in flux. Impossible to predict. Different. Terrifying .

I start pacing, Saint Nick mewling and then following me, but I don’t make it more than a few back-and-forth steps around my worktable before Ryan comes back in holding a square black box, about six inches by six inches.

What’s in the box? A whole collection of condoms? Will he let me choose?

No, from the look on his face, it’s something different. Weston’s severed hand?

I’ve been reading too many novels. Even though Ryan’s punched people before, I can’t see him willfully hurting someone, especially in the studied, committed way sawing off a limb would require.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice strange to my ears. I’m tired. Overstimulated. Overwrought. I should be in bed now, sleeping, but I’m tired of sleeping my life away. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but right now this is where I want to be.

He holds the box between his hands, looking at me with that same expression. Worried , I decide.

“I can’t tell you why, not yet, but your grandmother gave this to me to keep safe.”

“Ryan, let me see the box.” My heart is beating fast. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what’s in there—the missing ornament. My father’s not the only one who has been looking for it: he wants it for selfish reasons; I want it because it was hers.

Ryan hands the box over, and I flip it open. My heart bursts when I see the ornament’s spindly spikes glowing in the dim light from my lamp. I gasp and carefully tug it out, letting it dangle in a full circle so my eyes can drink in every angle.

Saint Nick stalks up to me, probably with poor intentions, but Ryan scoops him up into his arms without hesitating—and my cat lets him.

Once I’m certain the ornament is as it should be, completely undamaged, I tuck it back into its box and glance at Ryan over the lid. “You’re the person she gave the ornament to.”

He nods and steps over to my bed, letting Saint Nick down. My cat bats at his hand, then starts weaving in ever-shrinking circles until he plops down, letting his body collapse. “Last Christmas Eve. She gave it to me before I left the B&B.”

I swallow, considering the implications. This ornament meant a lot to my grandmother. She would only have given it to him if she trusted him deeply, implicitly, and without reserve . And yet, he’s held onto it for a week since returning to the B&B.

I turn my back to him and bring the ornament into the closet, where I stow it in a spot I know it will be safe and hidden. Once I’m done, I stand in the closet for a few seconds, trying to gather the scattered bits of myself and focus on this moment, this place, this man.

Then I turn back toward him and find him watching me with eyes like a chastened puppy’s. “Were you going to keep it?” I ask. “It’s worth a lot of money, and none of us knew you had it.”

“I never even considered it. I was always going to give it to you,” he says hoarsely. “It was only a matter of when.” He scratches the back of his ear in a self-conscious gesture. “I came here to give it back to her .”

“You’re asking me to believe a lot.” I’m already halfway toward believing him, but I’m aware of my own inclination to believe in the people I care about. I want them to have good intentions, so in the past I’ve been guilty of not being suspicious enough.

He sighs and rubs his heel against the floor. “I wouldn’t believe me if I were you. But it’s true. I came here to bring it back. And I held onto it because I felt like I was running out of reasons to stay. You dropped Weston, and you and Joe have the inn about covered, so if I gave it to you…”

“You want to stay?”

“I want to stay because of you.”

I want to press him for more details. To find out exactly what happened between him and my grandmother a year ago, and what comprised that dark period of his life. But he asked me the other day whether I would be able to withstand judging him, and I still can’t say no with a clear heart.

It must have been criminal, whatever he was mixed up in.

But Grandma Edith trusted him.

Insofar as I can, I trust him too. But I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do now. I don’t think I can process anything else after the day I’ve had. I need time for everything to be sorted into the proper portion of my gray matter.

I press my fingers to my thumb, trying to ground myself. “So you came here to stay with my grandmother, you told her your story, and she gave you this ornament for safekeeping. But why did you come here , of all places? Was it…was this the place your mother left you?”

“No.”

He obviously doesn’t intend to expand upon that. I could either accept that or throw him out.

I’m not ready to throw him out.

“You know, my father’s been looking for that ornament,” I say, nodding toward the closet.

“I expect he has.”

“The other night, he told me he thinks it’s hidden somewhere in the house,” I say, my voice quavering as I consider what that might mean. “Do you think that’s why Weston wants the inn? Is that what the inspector guy was hoping to find? Although…no, that wouldn’t make sense.”

For one thing, Weston is wealthy. No one would be unhappy to fall into a couple hundred thousand dollars, but he certainly doesn’t require it, and indeed, it wouldn’t make buying the B&B worthwhile to him.

I say as much out loud, and Ryan shakes his head, his lips a firm line. “Maybe. Financial value isn’t the only reason why people want to own something. He might want it just because he doesn’t want you to have it. I wouldn’t put it past Weston.”

Nor would I.

“I won’t let him take it from you,” Ryan adds, his voice gruff.

“ I won’t let him take it,” I correct. “I’m a grown woman perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, rubbing the back of his ear again. “I can clear out my stuff. It won’t take long.”

He came in with a duffel bag. I know he’s from New York, but does he have an apartment there? A house?

“Is that all you have?” I blurt.

He tries to smile. “Grandma Edith didn’t give me any other precious Christmas antiques, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, the duffel bag,” I say through the squeezing sensation in my throat. “Is that all you have? Or do you have an apartment or a house waiting for you?”

“No. I was gone for a month or so, and my roommate assumed I wasn’t coming back. He got rid of my shit.” He looks away. “I’ve got some money tucked away, though. Plenty to pay for my room. I’m not a charity case.”

“I didn’t think you were,” I murmur, “but that’s so sad .” My voice wobbles on the word.

I think about all the stuff I have, tucked into the nooks and crannies of this house. Ornaments and trees and Santa Clauses. Furniture and Tupperware and dishes. Clothes. Everything Ryan has right now fits into a bag.

My stomach is a pit, a black hole.

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t,” I tell him. “But I care about you, and if you’re sad, then I’m sad.”

His expression becomes less severe. “I’m not sad right now.”

“I don’t want you to give me anything. I only want to spend time with you.”

His eyes change. One moment all the darker colors are taking prominence—deep greens and browns—and the next they’re all gold. He takes a step toward me, his powerful body tensing with the simple movement. “ Anabelle. ”

“I like the way you say my name.”

“One of us is going to get hurt,” he says, reaching up to cup my cheek, his fingertips playing with my hair. Each touch sends an electric sensation across my scalp. “It would be better if we were just friends.”

“But we’re not just friends,” I say. “I don’t want to kiss any of my friends.”

“And you want to kiss me?”

“ Yes. I’d like to spend all night kissing you.”

“I don’t know what it can mean,” he says, shoving his hands so aggressively into his pockets I’m surprised they don’t come off.

“Neither do I. There’s so much I still don’t know about you.”

And yet…I think he’s probably told me more than he tells most people. That makes me almost as sad as knowing that duffel bag contains all of his earthly belongings.

“I’m trying to be someone worth knowing,” he says. “In the past, I wasn’t.”

“Then you’ve already succeeded. Because you are a man worth knowing. You’ve only been here a week, and you’ve changed so much for the better. Not just for me, but for Joe, and even for Jeremy and Cynthia. You’re a better man than you’re letting yourself believe.”

He swears under his breath, and then he gives in, thank goodness, weaving his hand into the back of my hair. He leans into me, his mouth hovering millimeters over mine again. But this time he’s the one who presses forward. His kisses are hard and soft, as if he wants to be the one to break me and put me back together. His hand tightens around my hair, and his lips travel from my mouth to my neck, where he kisses me softly and then sucks in my flesh in a place that makes my knees want to buckle.

Usually, the world is a place of too-loud or too-soft voices, buzzing lights and machines and hundreds of unwanted sensations—too hot, too cold, too hard, too soft, too much—but at this moment, he’s captivating all of my attention. Every bit of me is focused on the feeling of his mouth brushing over me while he holds me close, pressing my body against him. He touches me like I’m something precious, and also like I’m a dessert he wants to gorge himself on, and I can’t get enough of it.

As our lips move together, he runs his hands over my body, always moving. They glide over my back and my butt, through my hair and around to the side of my breasts. My hands are touching him everywhere too, running over the hard muscles of his arms and chests, tracing his tattoo, lifting up his sweater so I can feel his hard back. They travel everywhere except for one place. The thought of touching him there still makes me embarrassed and jittery and hot. But I can feel the hard press of him against me.

I know how much he wants me.

I’m overwhelmed by him. I’m humbled by him. And yet…

This is happening fast after all of the slow dancing we’ve done over the past week. I’m tumbling into him, and I don’t know when or how my fall will be broken. There’s a part of me that doesn’t care—and that scares me most of all.

He pulls away, looking down at me, his lips pinker from kissing me. “I want you, Anabelle. You can probably feel how much I want you.”

“I can,” I admit, feeling a spike of worry again. I’ve never slept with a man so quickly before. Will I regret it if I do it now? Or if I don’t? I know there’s a chance he’s leaving, and if I don’t get to be with him at least once, I’ll always regret that.

He smooths a hand over my hair and then tucks it beneath the heavy mass, pressing his palm flat against my back. “I’m only going to kiss you tonight. Do you have any rules about where I can kiss you?”