Page 64 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Yeah, I don’t like it either,” Joe says. “They’re obviously trying to shove her and Weston back together.”

I groan. “You think they invited him over too?”

“Probably. I’ll bet it’s some parent trap setup.”

“Fuck,” I fume. “Do you think we should go over there?”

“You want to crash dinner with her parents?”

He doesn’t sound like he’d object, so I nod. “Yeah, I really do. I don’t like the thought of that guy being anywhere near her.”

“I don’t know where they live, or I’d tell you,” he says. “You know, she tried to break up with Weston before. Six months ago. But somehow it ended with them going on this vacation together. To, like, Disney World. She hates crowds. He’s got an uncanny way of convincing her to do things she doesn’t want to do.”

I don’t like that one bit.

“What do we do?” I ask.

“She’s not going to take him back this time, man. He threatened her.” He peers at me through his big glasses and then smiles knowingly. “You’ve got a thing for Anabelle, huh?”

“No,” I say quickly, but his gaze has already tracked to the stuffed cat I’m holding in the bag.

Grinning at me, he plucks it out and waves it in front of my face. “The Santa Cat is out of the bag.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Looking very amused with himself, he sticks the cat back in the bag. “I’m not going to out you, man. But maybe you shouldout yourself, if you’ll excuse the choice of words. I bet it’ll cheer her up to know there’s another option on the table.”

“I’m not an option,” I say, setting the bag down next to the credenza and pouring myself a stiff drink. Screw hot chocolate.

I can feel Joe staring at me, so I turn to look at him.

“Why aren’t you an option?” He grins, obviously coming into himself. It hits me like a fist to the gut that Anabelle’s friend trusts me. I’ve done barely anything to earn that trust, which makes me feel like an asshole even though I haven’t acted like one. “Because you’re in love with me?” he adds blithely.

“You got it in one.”

“Seriously. Why aren’t you an option?”

“She’s not my type.”

It’s true that Anabelle is unlike the women I’ve dated, but it’s a bald-faced lie to say she’s not my type. She’s lovely in a way I can’t quite wrap my head around—a joining of soft curves and hard edges that’s almost painfully perfect, from her upright posture to her soft, long hair and those big brown eyes. I’ve been thinking of her nearly constantly since I got here, and in truth, I’d also thought of her a few times over the last year, as I struggled to come back here. To do what I’d pledged to do.

Then she was a picture, an ideal.

Now, she’s a woman whose wall adjoins with mine. Whom I can hear fussing about her room and occasionally singing softly to herself, her voice sweet and low.

Joe’s smile drops, and he develops a look of contempt as he pours himself some hot chocolate, adding Baileys.

“Is this because she’s on the spectrum?” he asks.

“What spectrum?”

The look on his face is comical, and he nearly drops his mug.

“Careful,” I warn, “you might have no choice but to use the tea towel for its intended purpose.”

He wags his head at me and sets the mug down on a coaster. “You knew her grandmother. I guess I thought you knew.”

“What spectrum?” I repeat.

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