Page 55 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“And you’re beautiful to me,” I admit, to him and myself.

His mouth is still hovering over mine, so close I can almost feel his lips. But he doesn’t span the distance between us, and he doesn’t pull away. The tension between us is pulled taut like a caught thread. Maybe I’ll always be hanging here, in the middle of something, because I’m not brave enough to take a chance.

That’s the thought that finally does it, and I lean closer and press my lips to his. He sighs into me as he kisses me.

His mouth is soft on mine at first—a brush of the lips, almost like we were leaning in for a cheek kiss and someone got confused. My hand is still wrapped around his hair, though, and when I use it to bring him closer, his lips become more demanding. They move over mine as if he’s as interested in learning me as I am in learning him. He sucks in my bottom lip and moves his tongue against mine, and everything inside of me is focused on him. I no longer hear the hiss of the radiator or notice the way the Christmas lights shine off the ornaments or hear the slight creaks of an old house filled with people. I only experience Ryan—the groan he makes in the back of his throat as he kisses me, the feeling of his lips and tongue, and the taste of his cinnamon whiskey. The way he keeps his eyes open, as if he wants to remember who it is he’s kissing.

So do I. Kissing someone new for the first time after the end of a relationship should probably feel strange, but there’s no awkwardness or regret. This is what kissing should be, I decide—so delicious and decadent you don’t want to stop and maybe don’t even know how.

Ryan is the one who pulls back, his hair mussed and his dark eyebrows arched as if in surprise. “Whoa,” he says, tippinghis forehead until it touches mine. Tingles of pleasure radiate through me.

“Whoa,” I echo.

His hand reaches for mine, and I give it to him, only then feeling a brush of apprehension. Because there’s an unreadable look in his eyes as he pulls his head from mine.

“God, I like you, Anabelle. I like you so damn much. But I don’t know how long I’m going to stay.”

“I know what indefinitely means,” I say, my tone a little prickly, because uncertainty is starting to pulse back into my bloodstream.

“Of course you do.” He smiles and traces my jaw, his fingers insistent on knowing me. “You probably know ninety-nine percent of the words in the dictionary.”

I don’t argue. I expect he’s right. I just wait for him to get to whatever point he’s inching his way toward, feeling dread in the pit of my stomach.

But he doesn’t get to the point. He just peers at me, his eyes intense and full of a meaning I can’t interpret, and finally I say, “You’re trying to tell me this was a mistake.”

He shakes his head, though his eyes are full of regret. Usually, it’s hard for me to read other people’s cues, but I can almost see it clustered around his pupils. “Not a mistake. A kiss like that could never be a mistake. But you’re too important to me to…”

“Too important to kiss?” I ask in disbelief.

“Exactly,” he says as if he agrees with that nonsensical remark. “I’m here to help you, and I can’t let wanting to…” he clears his throat, “kiss you get in the way. Your grandmother asked me to help you with the inn, and that’s what I intend to do.”

It’s as if he just broke the spell that had descended over us.

I get to my feet, suddenly furious with him, my grandmother, and every single person in my life. Even Joe, whom I’ve trusted with far too much personal information, has lied to and manipulated me. “That’s what was in that letter?”

“Part of it.”

“My grandmother asked a complete stranger to help me?”

He bows his head, his hair hanging in the front. “She meant a lot to me.”

“She meant a lot to me too, Ryan. ButIdidn’t ask you for help. And I don’t need or want it, not if you’re giving it to me out of some sort of obligation.”

“I’m not,” he says, getting up too. “I’m not. That’s not—” He swears, sweeping his hands through his hair. “I’m no good at finding the right words, Anabelle. I’m not here because your grandmother asked me to get rid of Weston, I—”

“What?” I fume, my voice rising.

A groan rolls out of him. “Oh shit. That wasn’t the right thing to say either.”

The terse woman who’s staying in Room C hurries past us and up the stairs.

“Have a pleasant day, Bea,” Ryan calls after her.

Of course he knows her name. I do, too, but it’s not because she and I have had any conversations. I dart an accusatory look at him.

Turning back toward me, he says, “I’m doing this all wrong.”

He has the expression of a puppy dog who peed on the rug, but I can’t worry about his feelings right now, while I’m being eaten alive by mine. There’s anger, certainly, but beneath it is something rawer.

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