Page 73 of Five Stolen Rings
The doorbell finally rings when I’m halfway through cutting out the gingerbread-shaped batch and the reindeer batch is already in the oven.
And it’s stupid, the way my heart leaps. It’s just Jack. I might have a bit of a crush on him, but there’s no need for all these stupid butterflies to take flight. They can conduct themselves in a dignified manner, can’tthey?
I quickly pull my apron over my head and glance down at my clothes—an off-white sweater and comfortable jeans. I look decent enough. So I run my fingers through my hair and then hurry to the front door, checking the clock on my phone as I do.
A smile tugs over my lips when I see the time: three minutes past noon.
The front door opens with a lurch when I turn the handle, the front wreath swaying and knocking gently, and for a second I just let myself look at the man in front of me.
There’s an expression on his face I haven’t seen much of—it’s nervous, almost, like he’s not quite sure what he’s doing here at my front door. His arms are tucked behind his back, and he’s dressed in a sweater and nice jeans.
He was born to wear sweaters. This one is emerald green, a striking color against the brown-black of his hair and his eyes. His skin is pale enough that he always seems to have a five o’clock shadow, and I find myself fighting the sudden urge to reach out and touch his jaw—to feel the sharp curve, to find out for myself if his skin is smoothly shaven or sandpaper rough.
Bad hands,I think as my fingers twitch.Behave yourselves.
“Well, well, well,” I say to Jack, letting my voice drawl the way his did when I got stuck in that stupid tree at Maude’s house. I fold my arms and lean against the door frame. “I seem to remember telling you that if you were late, you would be on my blacklist.”
He leans closer, and his nervous expression fades away, his eyes dancing with humor instead. “And when you said that,Iremember thinking that you’re too much of a sweetheart to actually have a blacklist—no matter what you say.”
I blink in surprise, thoroughly taken aback. “I?—”
But I break off when he produces a potted poinsettia from seemingly out of nowhere—he pulls it from behind his back and holds it up with a flourish.
“Ooh,” I say, looking at the velvety petals and the cellophane-wrapped pot. “Pretty. For me?”
“For your parents.”
I nod. “But—why?”
“I don’t even know,” he says, looking bemused. “An hour ago I just panicked that I didn’t have a gift for them. I snuck into the florist’s right before they were closing for the day.”
I slap my hand over my mouth to hide my laugh, but it doesn’t work; he raises one dark brow at me.
“Are you laughing at me, Princess?”
I clear my throat and arrange my facial expression into something more neutral. “I would never.” Then I step back and open the door wider. “Come in, esteemed holiday guest. And prepare yourself for a million questions.”
This doesn’t seem to faze him; if anything, he looks happy about the prospect, smiling broadly as he enters.
But I guess, looking at it from his perspective, answering a ton of questions would be nice. Because it means someone is present enough and cares enough to ask.
I want that for him—and maybe I want tobethat for him, too, if he’ll let me.
“Jack!” my mother says, emerging into the entryway, her arms open. She folds him into a hug immediately, without asking, without warning, and for a second he’s clearly startled. His body freezes, his eyes popping wide—but a second later he relaxes, the tension draining out of his frame, and a genuine smile spreads over his face as he hugs my mom.
“Hi, Mrs. Partridge,” he says warmly as he wraps one arm around her, the other still holding the poinsettia.
“It’s so good to see you, sweetie,” she says, squeezing him tight. “But look how tall you’ve gotten! Have you grown?” She steps back, holding him at arms’ length and inspecting him. “You have. You’re taller!”
“Probably,” Jack says, nodding and smiling still. “I’m about six-two now. Here”—he holds out the flower—“I brought this for you.”
This goes over beautifully, of course, because Jack is nothing if not charming.
“Jack!” my dad says as he rounds the corner and sees us. He beams, his balding head reflecting the overhead light as he hurries forward. “Good to see you. It’s been a long time.”
They shake hands and begin chatting aboutWhat have you been up toand life lately and work and so on—and I have to say, Jack is a lot nicer to my parents than he is to me.
“I’m a nice person, Princess,” he says under his breath when I point this out. My parents have gone ahead of us, my mom hurrying back to check on the beeping oven, my dad heading to the dining room to place the poinsettia in some light. “And besides, I want them to like me.”
