Page 54 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I don’t think any man has ever looked at me this way—like he likes what he’s seeing. Like he wouldn’t change a thing about me if given the chance. I’ve had men who have wanted me, and men who have used me, but never a man who valued me.

My hand reaches up without bothering to ask permission from my body, my fingers brushing the tiny scar under his lip. His mouth opens, and a hidden pervert who must have been dwelling inside of me my whole life suddenly comes out. I want to stick my finger in his mouth to see if he’d suck on it.

It’s an intrusive thought, and I tug my hand back. But I don’t move away from him.

“How’d you get that scar? I’ve been wondering.”

“I did something stupid and got hit for it.”

“What happened?” I ask, my heart hurting for him, because somehow I know it wasn’t good, and it wasn’t his fault.

He shrugs. “I was eighteen, maybe, and my boss asked me to do something a certain way. I thought I could do it better. He disagreed.”

“So he punched you? What kind of work did you do?”

His smile feels half-hearted. “Dark work.”

“So you said,” I murmur numbly. Was he a wrestler? An underground boxer? Some kind of criminal? “Did you punch him back?”

He makes a snort of amusement. I feel myself edging a little closer to him, enough that our sides are lightly touching, and I’m so hyper-conscious of him that I can barely think.

“No, Anabelle, I didn’t punch him back. He was… I looked up to him a lot back then. I figured I probably deserved it.”

“No one ever deserves to get punched,” I say fiercely, reaching up again to brush my fingers over his scar. He watches me as I do it. I can’t read the look in his eyes, but it’s warm.

“I’ve punched other people,” he says. “Plenty. For saying my brother and me had fleas. For calling me stupid, even though it’s mostly true—”

“It’s not,” I snap.

He smiles softly at me. “Thank you for that. But I got in lots of dumb fights in school. It’s one of the reasons I dropped out. The other is that I couldn’t focus.”

I trace the scar again, trying to see him as the wild kid who got into fights. The lost kid who didn’t get the help he needed.

“They failed you,” I tell him, my hand still cupped around his face.

“You keep saying that.” He shakes his head, the motion moving my hand. I’m struck by how little space exists between us right now, as if the world has shrunken to bring us closer together. He’s still smiling at me, and I feel a painful awareness of him. At this moment we really do feel like an us. “And while I’m encouraged that you care enough to make excuses for me,you don’t have to. I was a terror. They didn’t know what to do with me.”

“You’re not like that anymore.” My fingers trace the side of his face as if they don’t know how to stop touching him. He shaved this morning, but I feel scruff under my fingers, everywhere except on that scar.

“I still am a bit. I can’t tell you how much self-restraint it took for me not to punch Weston the other day. I still want to do it. Right this minute, I’d like to get up and track him down, just so I can punch his face the instant he opens the door.”

“Oh, he’d never open the door if he saw your face through the peephole. I think he’s afraid of you.”

“He should be.”

This time, my finger moves over the scar and then traces his bottom lip. His lips are softer than I expected them to be, and I feel my heart beating faster. Each breath I take feels harder to draw in. I’m dancing at the edge of a cliff, but I don’t want to stop. This man is dangerous and full of secrets, and my parents would never, ever approve of him, but I’ve known him to be nothing but kind and thoughtful. Sweet.

“You didn’t hit him, though,” I say. “You’re older. More capable of controlling yourself. You’ve learned.”

“You’re like a one-woman hype squad.” He leans his face in a little closer, as if nuzzling my hand, and I’m so overcome by him it takes me a moment to form words.

“So are you. You make me feel…” Suddenly tears are forming behind my eyes. I brush my hand up and into his hair, weaving it around my fingers. “You make me feel like I’m capable.”

“You are,” he says intently, his brow furrowing, making me want to skate my fingers across that too. There’s still a few inches between us on the sofa, but we’re leaning into each other, our mouths so close that the air between us is shared. “I hope I also make you feel beautiful.”

“You do,” I say, that breathless feeling gripping me again.

“Because you’re so beautiful to me, Anabelle.” He leans in closer, his mouth a whisper away from mine, and I’m so enthralled by it, by him. Every bit of me is present and in need.

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