Page 83 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I close the door, feeling numb but hopeful. Feelingeverything.

When I turn, she’s right in front of me. Saint Nick is nearby, but he’s keeping a respectful distance, like he’s giving us the chance to figure out our shit. There’s a future treat with his name written all over it.

“I know you think you can’t stay,” she says slowly.

“You won’t want me to stay once you know everything about me.” I run my hands through my hair, frustrated.

“Why don’t you tell me, and allow me to decide?”

“I don’t want you to tell me to leave before we figure out what Weston and the inspector are planning.”

“What could be so awful?” she asks, her eyes wide. “You said you didn’t murder anyone, and I know better than to think you’re some kind of sexual deviant.”

I scoff. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Your nightgown is giving methoughts.”

“This nightgown?” she asks, baffled. “This belonged to my grandmother.”

I laugh into my hand. “You know. You think that’d put me off, but it doesn’t. You don’t look like anyone’s grandmother in it. I can see your nipples.”

She crosses her arms over her chest.

I place my fingers on her arm, tentative. “Don’t. It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Besides, there’s nothing you could do to cure my mind. It’s never been clean in this room.”

“Even when you were eating cat treats?” she teases, her voice breathy.

“Five minutes later, you were sucking on a candy cane. What do you think?”

Heat flares through me. I’m painfully aware of her as she stands there in that innocent little nightgown, so tempting my hands are shaking with the need to touch her.

“I’m not some untouched virgin, Ryan,” she says, a touch of schoolmarm in her voice. “I’ve had plenty of sex.”

“I don’t want to think abouthimtouching you.” It makes me want to stalk over to Weston’s house and break in just so I can beat the shit out of him.

“He’s not the only person I’ve slept with. I’m twenty-eight.”

“I don’t want to think about anyone else touching you.”

She licks her bottom lip. If she were any other woman, I’d wonder if she were doing it on purpose to make me feel overcome, but I know better. This is just Anabelle—and by being herself, she is effortlessly the sexiest woman I’ve ever met.

“I don’t want to think about other women touching you, either. I’m positive there have been quite a few more of them.”

I hang my head, feeling like an asshole again.

“There’ve been a lot,” I admit. It takes me a few beats before I find it in me to look her in the eye again. “I’m not smart like you are. But I’ve always been good on my feet and liked working out. That’s all women have ever wanted me for.”

“Your body,” she says softly.

“Yeah.” I swallow, feeling self-conscious. I’ve felt this way before, but I sure as shit haven’t told anyone. For one thing, any guy who complains about all the women he gets with isn’t going to get a pat on the back and a lollipop. For another, saying this shit makes me feel raw, like my skin has been peeled off.

I wait to see if she’s going to pour on the salt.

“I appreciate your body. Anyone would.” Anabelle runs her fingers gently over my bicep and down my arm to my hand, which she squeezes. Then she lifts her hand to my face, running her fingertips over my cheek and my lips, each stroke filling me with need. They stop on my scar, which she rubs softly before lowering her hand. “But not as much as your heart.”

“I don’t have anything to give you.” It’s a lie. I have the ornament right next door, in my closet. But if I give it to her now, she may ask me to leave.

My heart speeds up, and sweat beads across my brow.

I don’t want to leave her. But I’m stuck between two choices, and only one of them makes me an asshole.

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