Page 15 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

God, she’s pretty.

Acan’t be touchedkind of pretty, which, let’s be honest, makes her even prettier.

Some guy just came through the door—someone she knows, clearly—but now that I don’t need to look away from her anymore, it’s hard to want to. Especially when she’s wearing something that’s mine.

My first impression of Anabelle was that she’s a bit uptight. Nothing that’s happened in the last half hour has made me think otherwise, but that side of her is balanced by sweetness, like the cherry in an old-fashioned. That sweetness is reflected in those lovely light-brown eyes of hers and the satisfaction she takes in her Christmas decorations. And when she talks about her grandmother, it’s all around her, dancing on her skin and in her eyes, and in the slight curl of her hair—more than a wave but barely.

I’ll bet she was the valedictorian of her class, and made a heartfelt speech that pleased the adults in the audience and made the kids roll their eyes. I wouldn’t know what a speech like that would sound like, on account of the whole high-school-dropout thing, but I wish I could listen to Anabelle recite hers.

“Anabelle?” the newcomer repeats, and I finally turn to look at him.

The guy is a couple of inches taller than me but skinny, with blond hair that forms a widow’s peak at his forehead, shoes so shiny I could probably see my face in them, and a black overcoat. A peacoat, they call them.

He looks like he should speak with a British accent.

“Weston,” Anabelle says, her tone worried. She lets her sopping-wet blouse fall to the ground, and the cat rushes forward from behind the giant nutcracker in the corner and snatches it with his mouth.

“Saint Nick,” she hisses, and again, I feel a stab of protectiveness. She’s twisted into knots, overwhelmed. I can see it in the way her eyes are bouncing between the cat, who’s licking the chocolate-stained shirt like it’s catnip, and the guy in the peacoat, who’s watching her with horror. Like he thinks she just broke some ironclad law of manners.

“What on earth is going on?” he asks, with plenty of bite in his voice.

I make the split-second decision that I don’t like this guy one bit. Take Edith’s impression of him and add in his holier-than-thou attitude, and you get an asshole.

I stoop to grab the shirt from the cat. Dogs can’t eat chocolate. I know dick-all about cats, so it could be a four-legged-creature thing. But now I’m holding Anabelle’s soaked shirt, she’s in my sweater, and Weston is starting to look pissed off.

“Here,” I say, handing him her soaked shirt.

Better for him to be holding it, I guess.

He accepts it reflexively—and then drops it with an expression of distaste. The cat makes another go at it, so I pick it up again.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Anabelle says, swiping the soaked shirt from me.

“Were youdrinking, Anabelle?” Weston’s gaze swings from me, to her, to the mug she’d promptly deposited back onto the desk. “It smells like Baileys in here.”

“Only a little.” She straightens the sweater self-consciously. “I spilled my hot chocolate all over the front of my blouse, and Ryan was kind enough to give me one of his sweaters so I didn’t have to walk up to my room sopping wet.”

He shifts his weight on his feet, his mouth turning down in disapproval. “You were drinking in front of guests?”

“She was drinkingwithme,” I say, because I don’t like the way he’s talking to her. Like she’s irresponsible and dumb, when anyone who’s met this woman must know she’s smarter than them, their smartest friend, andtheirsmartest friend. “I’m a friend of Edith’s, and Anabelle just shared the bad news with me. It only felt natural to raise a toast to a great woman.”

Weston’s eyes narrow, and he shifts his feet again, drawing attention to his shiny shoes, which seem completelyinappropriate for winter weather. “I take it you’re Ryan Reynolds.”

I lift my brow and glance at Anabelle. “My reputation precedes me.”

She’s worrying at the sleeves of my sweater, and I have to smile at the sight of her dressed in something of mine while her asshole boyfriend glowers at us.

“I told you I’d been expecting you,” she explains, her gaze apologetic, as if she thinks this guy’s poor attitude is anyone’s fault but his own. “Grandma wrote about you in her last letter to me. It was a mystery, and I like solving mysteries. So I told Weston and my friend Jo.”

I could point out that all she’d needed to do to solve the mystery was open the note, but this is another sweet thing about Anabelle: she clearly wouldn’t have. I’ll bet she would have kept it safe and sealed even if the world had been on the brink of ending.

“Well, mystery solved,” Weston says flatly. “Why don’t you get changed, Belle? I’ll wait down here.”

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“It’s a surprise.” His tone is terse, his jaw tense. I’ll bet she’s in for a barrel of fun.

“I’m working,” she objects. “Hot Chocolate Happy Hour is at five.”

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