Page 11 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

The words tie a knot in my stomach.Passed away,like she was a carton of milk we had to throw out because it soured. But he’s right—there’s no good way to say someone has died. No good way of sharing the way I felt that day, when I found myself cleaning up a complete stranger’s spilled tapioca pearls.

Ryan works his jaw, and I don’t have to be good at reading people to know this news is hurtful to him. Maybe even devastating. That makes me like him more. The castle of cards I’ve been building against him sways as if in a breeze, wanting to collapse.

“She’s really dead?” he asks in an undertone.

“Yes,” I say, gripping the edge of the striped upholstery to ground myself. “I was just thinking ‘passed away’ is a terrible euphemism.”

He rubs his stubbled jaw. “I’m damn sorry to hear it. I thought very highly of her.”

His gaze lifts to the Christmas tree, then stretches beyond it, to a framed photo of Grandma Edith I hung up last week. Gesturing to it, he says, “That used to be a photo of you.”

I startle a little, thrown by the thought that he must have sat here with my grandmother at some point, the two of them looking at that photo of me together. What had she said to him?

I know what my parents would have said.That’s Anabelle. She looks normal, but don’t let appearances deceive you.

I rub the tips of my fingers against my thumb to release some anxiety. “Well, it would have felt a little conceited to keep a photo of myself hanging on the wall.”

“I liked it. I like this one too.” His gaze finds it again and clings. “Maybe you should both be up there. The ladies of The Crooked Quill.”

I smile for a second, but it droops. I guess I’m the only lady of The Crooked Quill now, a depressing thought for everyone.

“Why’d she name it that, anyway?” he asks, shifting his attention to me.

“Would you like to hear the story Grandma Edith used to tell?”

“Please.”

“She said it was about one of our ancestors who had a…well…a crooked quill. You know. Not the writing kind. But my father says it’s because this place started as a print shop.”

“I like her story better.”

Sighing, I say, “I should mention now that Grandma Edith left a note for you. I haven’t opened it, of course.”

I tug it out of my pocket and hand it to him. He takes it from me, his hand glancing off mine—and an unexpected sensation ripples through me. Not disgust, but awareness. Probably because his hands are a bit rough, reminding me again of that soft-grade sandpaper. Voice like it, hands like it. He’s a man who’s all rough edges. I’m not used to that. Weston sees a manicurist once every two weeks.

Ryan sucks on his bottom lip, appearing to hesitate. It occurs to me that he might prefer to read his note alone, privately, so I smile at him and say, “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? You can have some hot chocolate while you read it. I’ll be at my desk.”

He nods, but before I can get up, he reaches over and captures my hand. Shock spirals through me as he gazes into my eyes. His focus is intense, and normally I’d look away, but I’m transfixed, frozen as surely as if I’d been turned into an ice sculpture.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Anabelle. She told me how close you were. I’d thought…” He runs his other hand through his mussed hair. “I’d hoped I’d be able to see her again. Both of you. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it all year.”

“How did you know her?” I say, then realize with a jolt that I’m still holding his hand. Worse, my fingers have started to slide across his skin, seeking out the different texture. I drop my grip and shift my gaze to his shirt—black, like the coat.

“It’s a long story,” Ryan says gruffly as he finally lowers the duffel bag to the floor. It lands with a heavy plop. He sits down on the striped sofa.

“And you don’t want to share it,” I deduce, nodding. I’m disappointed but not really surprised. He may have known Grandma Edith, but he doesn’t know me. “That’s okay.”

It’s not, but I get the sense it will have to be.

“Another day, maybe.”

“That sounds like a nice way of saying never,” I observe. It’s one of those truths I should have left unsaid, but as usual, I don’t realize my error until it’s already left my mouth.

I nod again and start to retreat from the room, giving him space. But I glance back at him from the doorway, taking in his head bent over my grandmother’s last words, his lips moving slightly as if he’s reading it aloud. His eyelashes are a deep black, a pleasing contrast to his lighter hair. It makes a person want to trace them with a fingertip to see if any ink comes off.

Weston’s eyelashes are short and stubby—a thought that instantly feels unfair, even though an observation cannot, by nature, be fair or unfair.

I find myself wanting to do something for Ryan, to help him, so I go to the credenza and pour him a cup of hot chocolate and tip some Baileys into it, the way Grandma Edith always did.

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