Page 32 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I don’t know why I’m trying to be unimpressive, other than that I need to stay away from her, and my own willpower has been compared to Swiss cheese.

“Your parents didn’t help you study?”

I laugh as I get out of the car, grabbing the shopping bag on the way out. On a whim, I go around to open her door, but she gets to it first, not that I’m surprised.

“Oh, do you want me to get back in?” she asks dryly as a breeze whips her hair around, a few silky locks getting me in the face.

I reach over and tuck the loose strands behind her ear. To my amazement, she leans her head into my hand. My dick responds with enthusiasm, but I know her better than to think it’s some kind of sensual invitation.

I tuck my hand into my pocket. “Don’t get back in on my account.”

“Didn’t your parents help you study?” she asks, returning to her earlier question as she inches away from me and closes the door. We start walking toward the inn, Anabelle reaching up to tuck her red and gold scarf more tightly around her neck.

I have to grin at her. “You don’t forget anything.”

“Never. It’s exhausting.”

“I’ll bet. I try to forget every few years. Get a clean slate.”

I’m joking, but there’s some truth to it. There are plenty of things I’d like to wipe away. My mother giving up on me. Jakegiving up on me. Countless disappointed girlfriends giving up on me.

Anabelle’s gaze finds me over her shoulder, holding for a second before flitting away. “Something inside of you always remembers, even if you can convince the thoughts to stay hidden.”

A heavy feeling presses on me, as if her words are tugging those old memories up through all the bullshit inside of me.

I rub my chest, telling the memories to stay put. “Let’s hope you’re wrong about that.”

She pauses, turning toward me, and shocks me by taking my hand—shocks herself too, judging by how quickly she drops it. My breath feels heavy, and so do my lungs. My body. I watch her, waiting. People pass on either side of us.

“It’s good to remember, Ryan. That’s what I’m doing with these.” She points to the shopping bag. “I’m remembering for other people, people who can’t do it anymore themselves.”

I nod, working my jaw. “But what if you have memories that aren’t any good?”

“The good and the bad are always mixed up together,” she says with a sad smile as another gust of wind whips her hair around.Christmas witch.“So if you gave up all of them, you’d be missing out on the good things too. You don’t have any positive memories from those times?”

I think about making dinner for Jake. Shooting the shit with Javier at the bar, both of us complaining about our pain-in-the-ass boss. I think about Grandma Edith and how her bones felt like a bird’s when I carried her down the stairs.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” I say, swallowing.

People continue to step around us, one man grumbling under his breath, but it feels like we’re in a bubble, a small world where there’s only the two of us.

“It’s like that for me too,” she says. “Even with Christmas. The day I found out Santa Claus wasn’t real, I cried for two hours. My father was the one who told me, and he wasn’t kind about it. I was nine, and he told me I was much too old to still believe in children’s stories.”

“That doesn’t make me want to punch him less.”

She shakes her head slightly. “You don’t have to punch him on my account. I don’t see my parents much, but they’re not all bad. When I was four, my dad brought me to the Christmas tree lighting and lifted me up on his shoulders. He said I was the star in his tree.”

I cock my head. “You’re how old?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“And you had to go back twenty-four years to find something nice he did for you? I’m gonna hold onto my bad impression.”

She smiles, her eyes twinkling. “Still. It was really nice.”

“You’rereally nice,” I blurt before I can think better of it.

Then again, that’s my way—rushing in with both feet. And this woman in front of me, with her big brown eyes and perfect tits and infectious love for Christmas, is impossible to resist.

---