Page 74 of Five Stolen Rings
“What about me?” I say without thinking—and I wish I could take the words back, because we’re supposed to be keeping things friendly.
But Jack doesn’t mind at all; he shoots me a grin and lowers his voice. “You already like me?—”
“All right,” I cut him off loudly, and his grin widens, his eyes full of laughter. “Should we go over a list of appropriate friend behavior?” I say.
He clears his throat and nods, a mock-serious expression on his face. “Hit me with it.”
I hold up one finger. “No flirting,” I say. “No touching, no teasing. And no—” My words die as my eyes find the mistletoe hanging over the door frame; I revive them and spit them out. “No thinking about those things, either.”
“Ah,” Jack says softly, slowing to a stop. “That’s one promise I can’t make, Stella girl.” He’s too close, and his expression as he looks down at me is toomuch—too warm, too knowing, too everything, and he smells too good, too familiar.
I could step into him, wrap my arms around him, and it would be heaven. He would be warm and solid and steady?—
My stomach flips pleasantly, my heart flutters, but I push those feelings away. “Try,” I say. “Or else…take me on a date.”
It’s the first time I’ve been so direct with my feelings, and my fluttering heart flutters a little harder. But I’m tired of beating around the bush. If I ask him out, he can reject me if he wants—but at least that way I’ll know, and I won’t have to keep thinking about it. I don’t have much patience for games or frustrating in-betweens.
I see his eyes widen the tiniest bit, see him open his mouth to respond?—
But then my mother pokes her head around the corner, a bright smile on her face, and Jack’s mouth snaps shut again.
“Come help me in the kitchen, you two,” she says, beckoning with her hand. She disappears again, and although Jack and I glance at each other?—
The moment is gone.
JACK
It’s been a long, long,longtime since I’ve spent Christmas Eve with anyone who feels like family. And for so many years I thought I was doing okay on my own, but this feeling, this warmth that comes from spending the holiday with people I love and who love me…
That’s irreplaceable. I can’t believe I forgot what it feels like. This home is cozy, full of cheer and laughter and joy. Mr. Partridge can’t carry a tune to save his life, but that doesn’t stop him from singing all over the house, and Mrs. Partridge and Stella are sneaking just as much cookie dough as they’re baking. Nobody is angry or tense; nobody is arguing. It’s easy and relaxing and perfect.
I could get a million cats, and they still wouldn’t bring this kind of warmth.
As much as I love the Partridges, however, and as much as I love their home and the atmosphere they’ve created, I could do with less of one thing: mistletoe.
I’m not exaggerating when I say it iseverywhere,and I am struggling. I can’t turn around without seeing a sprig, much less passing beneath it.
It’s hanging from the light fixtures, for goodness’ sake.
It’s a good thing I didn’t make that promise to Stella, that I wouldn’t think non-friendly thoughts. It would have been impossible to keep anyway, but with mistletoe everywhere I look…
Well. Let’s just say at this point I’m basically living in the memory of our kiss—our first kiss.
Because there’s been more than one.
Because I am an idiot.
Take me on a date.
The words play on repeat in my head, accompanied by the open, earnest, painfully hopeful expression on Stella’s face when she said it.
It’s such a simple request, and yet it doesn’t feel simple at all—it feels like the culmination of years of pent-up longing and denial, and I don’t know how to handle that.
So I try to focus on the present instead, try to pay attention to the food I’m helping prepare and the questions I’m answering. Mr. and Mrs. Partridge want to know all about my work and my life; I try to steer conversation away from the latter topic, because there’s not much in my life worth reporting on at the moment, other than Stella.
And that is a conversation I’m not ready to have—with her parents, anyway.
I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have that conversation with her, though. What would I even say? How would I explain my thoughts, my feelings? I can’t very well tell her the truth; it sounds absurd, even to me.
