Page 14 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

His eyes twinkle beneath those long lashes. “Lucky me.”

I retrieve Ryan’s key and give it to him, trying not to notice the brush of his skin against mine as he takes it. “Here’s your key.”

“My question about your boyfriend pissed you off,” he observes, studying my face.

“Yes,” I reply, surprised that he’s bringing it up. I’d decided to be a good sport and sweep it under the rug, but I won’t lie in response to a direct question.

“I’m sorry. I’m not very good at saying what I should say when I should say it.”

His honesty startles me into laughter. “That makes two of us, Ryan Reynolds.”

It occurs to me that he’s here under an assumed name and has said he’s staying indefinitely. Is he famous? He’s nottheRyan Reynolds, obviously, but he could be someone else I should recognize.

But I’m bad at recognizing people. So even if the real Ryan Reynolds stepped through my door, I probably wouldn’t know it.

I realize I’ve been staring again, absorbing the shape of his nose, including a little bump which might have been a break at some point, the small scar beneath his mouth, and the cluster of gold around his pupils. At some point, Saint Nick must have freed himself from my foot, but I don’t have any idea where he went.

I absentmindedly reach for my hot chocolate and lift it for a sip—and spill it all over the front of my emerald-green blouse, purchased for me by Weston’s mother. The drink’s not hot, thankfully, but it will stain.

“Oh cripes,” I say, just as Ryan says, “Oh, fuck.”

He looks around, as if he thinks an absorbent towel might be waiting on my desk, and then unzips his bag and tugs out a huge blue sweater and presses it into my hand.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the sweater, so I stand there like a deer caught in the headlights, clutching Ryan’s remarkably soft sweater to my belly while the soaked blouse clings to my skin. The air is full of the scent of chocolate and Baileys. It’s like someone pressed pause on the moment, because I feel incapacitated by the sensation of the wet fabric slicked against me.

“You can use it to wipe off your chest,” Ryan says, his voice a bit lower than before. He’s averting his gaze, staring at the littleChristmas elf that sits on the corner of my desk. Which is when I realize my blouse is clinging to my chest in a suggestive way, plastered to the front of my bra. It’s obscene. “Please,” he adds.

“I can’t do that to your sweater!” I sound offended on the sweater’s behalf.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t look at me. “The color won’t matter. It’s already dark. Or you can put it on over the shirt.”

Suddenly flushed, I insist, “I won’t ruin your sweater.”

“I want you to.” His lips curl into a nearly there smile. “I don’t like the person who gave it to me, so you’d be doing me a favor. You can keep it.”

He’s obviously in no hurry to leave, and it would be rude to give him a flat-out no, and I really, really want to get out of my wet shirt. I need to, to be honest.

“Thank you,” I say. “Of course I won’t keep it, but I would appreciate borrowing it.”

I pull his sweater over my head and down my waist, keeping my arms inside so I can quickly unbutton the sopping wet shirt. I start to pull the blouse off through the neckline, which is loose. The whole thing is loose, because Ryan’s a broad man with big shoulders. And his sweater smellsamazing—like Smokey the Bear threw some cloves into a forest fire in an effort to stifle them.

I hear the bell over the entry door chiming just as I finish pulling the original shirt loose.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

If guests thought I was unprofessional before, what will they think now that I’m performing a soaked-shirt striptease in the lobby?

I don’t know what to do with the dirty blouse, so I keep it in my hand as I turn to face the newcomer.

“Anabelle?” Weston says, his tone shocked.

CHAPTER FIVE

RYAN

I should be sainted for looking away from Anabelle Whitman’s tits. I got a enough of an eyeful to decide they’re perfect—Goldilocks would be blissed out, because they’re not too big, not too small, but exactly the right size for a handful of heaven. But I showed the restraint of a much stronger man and looked away from her as I all but shoved the sweater at her, a Christmas gift from an ex-girlfriend who’d told me I dressed like a high school dropout and needed all the help I could get. I’d pointed out that Iwasa high school dropout, something she hadn’t known, I guess, and she’d walked out on me. Left me with the sweater, though, and suddenly I have a new appreciation for it.

Anabelle looks softer in the big, oversized sweater, her eyes still those same baby-deer eyes I admired a year ago.

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