Page 63 of Five Stolen Rings

“I’m sorry.” I hand her the words immediately, andwith no regret.

“What are you sorry for?”

I sigh. “For—” I break off, thinking. “For lashing out instead of dealing with my emotions,” I finally settle on.

“And are you sorry for kissing me?” she says.

My heart lurches in my chest, a big, stupid rodent that doesn’t know when to quit. “I…don’t know how to answer that, if we’re going to be friends.”

“Answer truthfully,” she says after a beat of silence, and I can’t help but notice that although she’s still facing the Christmas tree, she’s no longer decorating; that martini ornament is still in her hand.

“No,” I admit. “I’m not sorry for kissing you.”

“Fine,” she says airily. “Friends, then.”

I nod and stand up, feeling somehow both relieved and disappointed.

“If you ever want more,” she goes on conversationally, “or if you’re ever up for delving into our history, or—well, I guess if you ever get your issues sorted, too…let me know.” She shrugs, which is more than my suddenly frozen body is capable of. “I think I might kind of like you.”

“I—why—what?”

I’m man enough to admit it’s not my finest moment.

She shrugs, a twitch of her shoulders in her pink fuzzy sweater. “I,” she says slowly, “like”—she draws this word out too, still facing the tree—“you,” she finishes. “Or at least…I might. I could. All that talk about never kissing you in a million years aside…” Another shrug, but now she turns to face me at last. “You are, for better or worse, exactly my type.”

“Am I?” I say faintly. Every single thought I’ve ever had is gone from my mind. I have regressed to pre-adolescent developmental milestones. Two-word sentences are all I’mcurrently capable of; I might soon lose the ability to speak all together.

“Mmm,” she says with a nod. “Yep. Intelligent, competent, a little too cocky, handsome, thoughtful. But,” she adds severely, “I amsouninterested in emotional games. I do not have the time or the patience. So for now, we’re friends. We don’t talk all the time, we don’t hang out every day for no reason, and we definitely don’t kiss. Got it?”

I nod slowly, even as something deep down rebels at these limitations.

“Good,” she says briskly. “Now either help me finish decorating or leave.”

I gape at her in silence until she throws me alook.

“Close your mouth,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You look like a fish.”

STELLA

Vowing to find a new job is much easier than actually finding one.

I don’t know where to look, for starters. I never thought I would move back to Lucky, Colorado, but now that I’m here…I don’t hate it.

So do I find a job here? Do I look back in California? Do I try a different part of the country completely?

There are a lot of decisions to make before I actually upload a resume.

And that’s another thing—any future employer is going to ask why I left Smith and Sons. What do I say?

“Tell them the truth,” India says in a scathing voice when I ask her. “That the skeevy son of the company’s founder hit on you and?—”

“No one is going to believe that story,” I cut her off,sighing.

After telling Jack what happened at Smith and Sons, it was somehow easier to tell India, too. She immediately put the company on her blacklist—not that she ever would’ve had business with them anyway—and she’s been scowling all afternoon, especially after I filled her in on all the other things that have happened too, like the eggnog disaster.

“I’m just saying,” she says now. The pompom on her knitted beanie flops back and forth as she shakes her head. “I’d throw him under the bus first chance I got.”

I can’t stop my smile. “And I love you for that.” Then I lean back in my seat, a deck chair on the back side of the house India shares with her sisters. We’re out here even though it’s snowing, because as much as I love the Marigold women, I really don’t want an audience—not when I’m feeling so tangled and confused.

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