The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

RYAN

Obviously, I don’t sleep.

How could I with Anabelle curled up next to me, her head resting on my arm, her hair draped over me like a blanket? The taste of her is still in my mouth, and my dick is so hard that I pull out my phone after she’s asleep so I can google whether anyone’s ever died from a hard-on.

Undetermined, but it definitely doesn’t help me sleep.

I’m in deep with her, and I only want to go deeper. I can’t tell whether that’s because I’m self-destructive or because I’m finally on the right path. My judgment is no good when it comes to my own life. Never has been.

I want to talk to my brother about all of this, but I can’t reach out to him asking for a favor after everything. When I reach out to him, it has to be man to man.

Joe’s too close to Anabelle for me to talk to him about her, but maybe I can level with Jeremy.

I need to level with someone.

When the digital clock on her nightstand reads 6 a.m., Saint Nick jumps up onto the bed and, no shit, settles right on top of my face. So either he still dislikes me or he really likes me. I’m not sure which I prefer, but I’m not in the mood to get pink eye from a cat, so I get up and maneuver his furry body next to Anabelle, who sighs and curls herself around him.

She looks at peace, her hair sprawled out around her and her long eyelashes resting against her cheek. Even the cat looks cute, so I give in to impulse and snap a photo of them. Hopefully that’s not weird.

I don’t want her to wake up and find me gone, like a thief in the night—hardy har har. So I put on my shirt, then find some sticky notes and scrawl Went downstairs for coffee on one and place it on the second pillow.

I usually start the day with a workout, but I don’t want to miss her when she comes down. That feels important today. Maybe I can make her a special breakfast.

I shut the door behind me and head down the stairs humming. When I get to the kitchen to see about the coffee, Cynthia’s already in there. She’s wearing street clothes, and oh shit, she clearly went with the peroxide plan because her brown curls are a stiff, unnatural blond. A beat later, she turns to greet me, and—

“Oh!” I say, taken aback by the full effect. “Wow.”

“You look like shit too,” she says with a sigh. “You didn’t sleep? Me neither. I made about ten gallons of coffee.”

“Your hair’s not bad,” I lie.

“It’s horrible. I stayed up crying half the night. I have to fix it, but I can’t bring myself to dye over it yet. I had to call in sick to work. They can’t see me like this.”

I think about what Jeremy said last night. He had a point, but it would be dickish of me to tell her that I agree with him now, after she’s already done it. I know plenty about doing impulsive things and having to sit with the consequences. Punching that tree when I was a kid. Trying to pickpocket Roark. Hopefully, going down on Anabelle won’t end up on that list someday.

“Uh, why don’t you go to a salon?”

She plants a hand on her hip. “Ryan, do you have any idea how long it takes to get into a good salon?”

“No offense,” I say, finding a mug and pouring myself some coffee. I lift the mug toward her. “But even a bad salon might be better at doing hair than you are.”

She looks like she’s about to bite my head off and swallow, but she takes a breath, releases it through her teeth, then says, “You may have a point.”

“Maybe Jeremy knows someone who can help.” I have no idea if he does, but might as well throw my buddy an in.

“What, because he has five thousand women sending him DMs?”

“He may be hearing from five thousand women, but I think he’s only interested in responding to one,” I tell her, grabbing some half-n-half from the fridge and doctoring my coffee.

Her hand lifts to her fried hair, and for the first time since I met her, she looks like she might cry. Shit. I wouldn’t know what to do if Cynthia, of all people, started crying.

“He wouldn’t look at me twice now,” she says. “I’m hideous.”

I set down the coffee cup and look at her. She’s dressed in a sweatshirt and yoga pants, and there are circles under her eyes, but her inner beauty shines through. “You’re not hideous. You’re lovely. Your hair is hideous, but that’s a problem we can fix.”

She barks out a laugh. “I can’t tell whether to be insulted or flattered.”

“Choose flattered. It’ll go easier on both of us. Now, what does Anabelle like best for breakfast?”

She gives me a shrewd look. “You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

“I need to do laundry.”

“And I need good news, Ryan,” she says. “Tell me you at least kissed her.”

I take a sip of my coffee. “Anabelle can tell you whatever she’d like, but you won’t hear anything from me.”

She wags her eyebrows up and down. “That sounds an awful lot like a yes. We’re making more of those red velvet pancakes, by the way. Suit up, sous chef.”

She seems like she’s in a better mood now, and we work well together, shooting the shit about anything but hair. About twenty minutes later, Anabelle enters the room, dressed in a white sweater with a high neck cinched by a red ribbon. Maybe she’s wearing it because she has a hickey. I’m probably a dick for hoping so.

She blushes when she walks in, and I grin at her, feeling like a king among men for making her come last night. She might not think I’m a deviant yet, but I want to strip that ribbon from her sweater and tie her hands with it. I’d like—

“Something definitely happened between you two,” Cynthia accuses. “I have eyes.”

“Cynthia!” Anabelle says, her eyes widening as she gets a good look at our friend.

She pats her hair. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

Anabelle’s horrified face nearly makes me laugh, but I want to put her out of her misery, so I say, “Cynthia thinks it was a mistake, but we’re going to figure out a way to fix it.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Cynthia laughs, shaking her head. “At least I know you’ll never lie to me. Which brings me to my next question…what happened with Ryan last night?”

Anabelle blushes adorably.

“And that’s my cue to leave.” I pour my girl a cup of coffee and then kiss her forehead before I give it to her. “We made you more Rudolph pancakes.”

Her brow furrows. “You don’t look like you slept.”

“I got something better than sleep,” I say in an undertone. “I got to look at you.”

Then I leave and head into the breakfast room.

Cynthia has watched and listened to our entire interaction, of course, but I don’t care if she knows. If I’m being truthful, I want everyone to know. Weston is first on the list.

Text conversation with Jeremy

911. Cynthia dyed her hair.

Fuck.

Excuse me for saying so, but this is your chance, bud.

Uh, what do you mean?

You’re interested in her, right?

It’s that obvious?

To me, yes. Cynthia is more hardheaded.

So what do I do?

Fix the hair situation.

I’ve got to go to work, and I don’t know dick about hair.

Develop a cold.

Use the internet.

If I mess this up, she’ll never forgive me.

Yeah, but think about what happens if you fix it.

I decided to do something about Anabelle, and now I think this is your time, brother.

Jeremy shows up after breakfast. The guests have left, but Cynthia, Anabelle, and I are sitting in the breakfast room drinking coffee. Joe hasn’t come down yet.

I’ve got to hand it to Jeremy. He’s a much better actor than I am, because he doesn’t react at all to Cynthia’s terrible dye job.

“What are you doing here?” she says, self-consciously lifting a hand toward her hair before she shoots me an accusatory look.

I grin and wave at her from across the table.

Anabelle doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her watching me. My grin gets so big it’s in danger of swallowing my face.

“I heard you called in sick,” Jeremy says. “But here you are, playing hooky.”

Cynthia glowers at him. “And here you are, doing the same.”

“You know what, you’re right,” he says, patting his chest with the flat of his hand, which he then holds it out to her. “Come with me, Cynth.”

“To where, exactly?” she asks, still sitting.

“Richmond,” he says, then pulls out his phone to check the time. “And we’d better leave now in case there’s traffic.”

“What’s in Richmond? If you’re trying to sell me into sex trafficking, Ryan and Anabelle are both here as witnesses.”

“My cousin’s best friend’s girlfriend is in Richmond. And she works in a five-star hair salon.”

Cynthia darts a quick look at me before turning back to him. “Ryan told you.”

Jeremy’s lips twitch. “Sure, but I have eyes. I was going to find out. I took the day off so I could take you.”

Anabelle is on the other side of the table, but her hand finds mine under the surface. She links our fingers together and squeezes, her face exuding happiness, and I feel like I’ve done right. I didn’t do it just for her, but I definitely wanted to please her.

“I don’t know,” Cynthia says, drawing our attention. She turns to us with a quizzical glance. “I said I’d go to the toy store with you guys this afternoon to pretend to hit on Ryan.”

“That’s okay,” Anabelle says, squeezing my hand again. “I’ll hit on him enough for both of us.”

Cynthia nods and finally gets up. “Thank you, Jeremy.” She releases a sigh. “This is definitely going to bite me in the ass, but I’ll admit to you once, and only once, that you were right.”

He gives her a smug grin. “This is the best day of my life. You both heard it,” he says, pointing at Anabelle and then at me. “I have witnesses.”

“Witnesses to you being a jackass, yeah,” Cynthia says, but she’s smiling softly at him, and I have no doubt my buddy is going to get himself a date.

They leave together, Anabelle and me watching them. The moment they disappear from view, she leans forward and kisses me across the table.

I grin at her. “What’d I do to earn that?”

“You helped Cynthia. You made my friend very happy.” She leans forward again, kissing me more thoroughly before sitting back.

“And that time?”

She smiles at me. “That one was for me. You make me very happy, Ryan. Do you want to go practice your ho ho ho for a while before Joe wakes up?”

“Yes, Anabelle. Yes, I do.”

“Because I have something for you. Wait right here.”

“Can I move an inch or two? Or do you want me to sit in exactly this spot?”

She smiles and gives an Oh Ryan shake of her head. “Exactly that spot.”

So I stay put, but my foot pats the floor and my fingers tap the table. What’s she doing? Is it too much to hope she’s going to come down in a negligee? Probably. And I also don’t want the two guests who are here to see her like that.

Finally, she steps through the door with a big gift bag tucked behind her back.

“That’s for me?” I ask, feeling even more jittery. Excited, but also…the last woman who gave me a gift, that sweater Anabelle likes so much, dumped me right afterward.

“It’s for you.” She hands it over, and I get right to it, opening it up and pulling out a Santa costume far superior to the one I bought on discount.

I glance up at her, pleased as hell. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, I wanted to.”

I tug on one end of the red ribbon at her neck, and she’s smiling as she leans in to kiss me. She gasps into my mouth when I pull her onto my lap, her legs straddling my thigh. “I think I’d like it if you were on the naughty list,” I say.

I don’t know what sight is better—Anabelle gasping with pleasure or Anabelle bashful and sweet. I’d rather not choose, because I’d like them both. I want all of the Anabelles.

“I feel like a naughty girl,” she says, grinding against me just enough to drive me nuts.

“Tell the truth, did you wear that shirt because I gave you a hickey?”

“Yes,” she says, and then delights the hell out of me by pulling down the neck of her sweater. “And I think it’s past time for you to give me another one.”