Page 89 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Your hair’s not bad,” I lie.

“It’s horrible. I stayed up crying half the night. I have to fix it, but I can’t bring myself to dye over it yet. I had to call in sick to work. They can’t see me like this.”

I think about what Jeremy said last night. He had a point, but it would be dickish of me to tell her that I agree with him now, after she’s already done it. I know plenty about doing impulsive things and having to sit with the consequences. Punching that tree when I was a kid. Trying to pickpocket Roark. Hopefully, going down on Anabelle won’t end up on that list someday.

“Uh, why don’t you go to a salon?”

She plants a hand on her hip. “Ryan, do you have any idea how long it takes to get into a good salon?”

“No offense,” I say, finding a mug and pouring myself some coffee. I lift the mug toward her. “But even a bad salon might be better at doing hair than you are.”

She looks like she’s about to bite my head off and swallow, but she takes a breath, releases it through her teeth, then says, “You may have a point.”

“Maybe Jeremy knows someone who can help.” I have no idea if he does, but might as well throw my buddy an in.

“What, because he has five thousand women sending him DMs?”

“He may be hearing from five thousand women, but I think he’s only interested in responding to one,” I tell her, grabbing some half-n-half from the fridge and doctoring my coffee.

Her hand lifts to her fried hair, and for the first time since I met her, she looks like she might cry. Shit. I wouldn’t know what to do if Cynthia, of all people, started crying.

“He wouldn’t look at me twice now,” she says. “I’m hideous.”

I set down the coffee cup and look at her. She’s dressed in a sweatshirt and yoga pants, and there are circles under her eyes, but her inner beauty shines through. “You’re not hideous. You’re lovely. Your hair is hideous, but that’s a problem we can fix.”

She barks out a laugh. “I can’t tell whether to be insulted or flattered.”

“Choose flattered. It’ll go easier on both of us. Now, what does Anabelle like best for breakfast?”

She gives me a shrewd look. “You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

“I need to do laundry.”

“And I need good news, Ryan,” she says. “Tell me you at least kissed her.”

I take a sip of my coffee. “Anabelle can tell you whatever she’d like, but you won’t hear anything from me.”

She wags her eyebrows up and down. “That sounds an awful lot like a yes. We’re making more of those red velvet pancakes, by the way. Suit up, sous chef.”

She seems like she’s in a better mood now, and we work well together, shooting the shit about anything but hair. About twenty minutes later, Anabelle enters the room, dressed in a white sweater with a high neck cinched by a red ribbon. Maybe she’s wearing it because she has a hickey. I’m probably a dick for hoping so.

She blushes when she walks in, and I grin at her, feeling like a king among men for making her come last night. She might not think I’m a deviant yet, but I want to strip that ribbon from her sweater and tie her hands with it. I’d like—

“Something definitely happened between you two,” Cynthia accuses. “I have eyes.”

“Cynthia!” Anabelle says, her eyes widening as she gets a good look at our friend.

She pats her hair. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

Anabelle’s horrified face nearly makes me laugh, but I want to put her out of her misery, so I say, “Cynthia thinks it was a mistake, but we’re going to figure out a way to fix it.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Cynthia laughs, shaking her head. “At least I know you’ll never lie to me. Which brings me to my next question…what happened with Ryan last night?”

Anabelle blushes adorably.

“And that’s my cue to leave.” I pour my girl a cup of coffee and then kiss her forehead before I give it to her. “We made you more Rudolph pancakes.”

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