Page 68 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Joe already threatened me, but I think I like this one. It leaves a lot to the imagination.”

His voice is almost playful, but truthfully his outfit leaves nothing to the imagination. Everything he wears is strained by his broad shoulders and muscular arms and chest, even his oversized Santa suit.

I clear my throat. “WhereisJoe?”

He smiles again, mischievously this time. “He went upstairs. Ben was on a bit of a sugar high from the hot chocolate, and Joe suddenly developed a headache. Who would have thought?” He pauses, his expression shifting. “How are you, Anabelle?”

“We’re not going to talk about the kiss. It didn’t happen.”

His face completely serious now, he says in an undertone, “We don’t have to talk about it, but it definitely happened.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Well, you don’t have to worry about it happening again. I’m mortified.”

He reaches for my chin and turns it firmly toward him. “I’m taking a guess on what mortified means, but you’ve got no cause to be embarrassed by anything. You didn’t kiss me. We kissed each other. I’d wanted to kiss you for days. But that doesn’t mean we should do it again.” He speaks softly, so we can’t be overheard by the guests in the parlor, but every word is perfectly enunciated.

“You think I’m a naïve child,” I say, feeling emotion tumble through my gut. “You’re worried you’re going to break my heart.”

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” he chides. “And who says it’s me who’d breakyourheart?”

I frown, taken aback. I’ve never thought myself capable of breaking anyone’s heart, or even seriously wounding them. I’m used to other people meaning more to me than I do to them.

My lips open, although I have no idea what I intended to say, so I’m glad when he continues, “Look, I just…it’s better if we stay friends. I want to be your friend.Pleaselet me be your friend.”

No one has ever spoken to me like this before. There’s something so raw and honest about him. The unfortunate truth is that it makes me want to pull him to me by that ridiculous beard and kiss him. But I don’t. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m still upset about what you told me last night. But I think I’m more upset with my grandmother.”

He considers this for a moment before nodding. Then he gestures toward the front of the house and my desk. “Do you want to go somewhere more private to talk for a minute?”

Not really, but also yes, really.

“Okay,” I say, sensing Lauryn watching us. She might only be watching Ryan, actually, waiting for him to come back. Maybe she likes his soft hazel eyes too. She might want to invite him up to her room later.

Well, probably not, given that she’s staying with her son, and Ryan’s rooming with Joe, but the thought has thorns.

Ryan might not want to kiss me again, but I can tell he’s kissed lots of women. He’s not confident in his intelligence and skills, but heisphysically confident. I can see it in his easiness on his feet and everything he does. He’d know what to do with a woman—a thought that makes me hot behind the ears.

He takes the first step, and I follow him, trying not to stare at the way his body moves beneath his clothes. When he reaches my desk, he stops and turns toward me, watching me from behind that ridiculous fake beard. If he thinks it’s weird that I slide behind the desk, into my comfort zone, he has the grace not to say so.

“Grandma Edith didn’t think I could do this on my own,” I tell him, continuing our conversation as if he hadn’t pressed pause on it. “No one does. Maybe I don’t either, because I asked Joe to help me. And the guests.”And you.

“I don’t think it was about doubting you, Anabelle,” he says, his eyes intent on my face. “She knew she was leaving you, and she didn’t want to, so she did whatever she could to keep you safe and happy.” He lowers his head, almost bashful. “Truth be told, I'm honored that she was so convinced I’d be coming back.”

A wave of emotion tries to pull me off my feet. “Why doyouthink I need help? Did she…” Discomfort forms pretzels in my chest; anxiety eats them. “Did she tell you that I’m on the spectrum?”

“No,” he says, reaching for my hand across the desk and then stopping himself. “No, but Joe told me this afternoon. I don’t know too much about it, but I did some googling on my phone.”

“Ugh, don’t google. Every time I try to google something medical, the internet tells me I have bacterial meningitis or cancer.”

He smiles at me. “I’m not a road scholar. Google is what I’ve got.”

I think he means Rhodes, but the last thing I’d do right now is correct him. Even though a part of me is itching to do just that.

“You can ask me,” I say. “And I’ll tell you one thing for free, no asking required. I don’t like it when people treat me like an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of doing things on my own.”

“I know you are,” he says seriously. “A hell of a lot more capable than most people. When were you diagnosed?”

I look away, remembering that time. Feeling the crush of it. “In my early twenties. I was…college was okay for me. The lecture halls were too loud, but no one else wanted to sit in the front row, so it usually worked out. But afterward, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my literature degree. So I tookan admin job at an advertising company. It was awful. My job was in this office where there weren’t any personal cubicles, just communal desks. It was supposed to make us all like each other more, or something, but it was so loud and overwhelming. I kept having panic attacks, and I went to see a psychologist. She was the one who suggested that I do the testing.”

“You worked in advertising,” he says with soft smile. “No wonder you hated it.”

---