Page 36 of Five Stolen Rings

“Just…hold onto my arm. Don’t let any single women corner me. That kind of thing.”

She rolls her eyes, something I see even in the dark, and mutters under her breath about “so presumptuous” and “think highly of yourself.” Then she clears her throat and says, “Fine. I can do that.”

I just grin. One evening of pretending to date her—that’s hardly enough for me to lose my mind and fall for her again.

I’m perfectly safe.

STELLA

“This feels unnecessary,” I mutter while I try to zip myself into my dress. “Going all the way to Boulder? What’s wrong with renting out the back room of Patsy’s or something?”

But of course, that wouldn’t be very Windsor-like.

My dress, on the other hand,isvery Windsor-like—something I’m not sure I’m proud of. It’s red velvet, with a square neck and long sleeves. The tight bodice flares out into a flouncy skirt that hits a few inches above my knees, and I put on a pair of short biker shorts underneath just in case the wind gets rowdy. I’m not here to flash anyone.

When I finally get the zipper up—it’s been a few years—I smooth my hands down the front and examine myself in the mirror. My legs are a little paler now than they are in the summer, but they’ve still got a bit of their golden glow. I look nice, I guess.

But mostly I just feel dumb. And anxious. And possibly straight-up scared.

I should not care what my old classmates think. I really really should not care. And I keep telling myself, over and over like a mantra, that I don’t.

But I’m not convinced.

To distract myself, I get to work on my hair. It’s clean now, thank goodness, and the staples are almost unnoticeable, but it still takes me a good twenty minutes to figure out what to do. I finally settle on loose waves, a tried-and-true style.

A knock sounds at the sliding door in my little living room just as I’m clasping my necklace; I hurry over, pulling the curtains aside and then opening the door.

“Hi,” I say. My voice is breathless from both the nerves I’m feeling and my last minute bustling around. “I’m almost—” But I break off when I see Jack, my words dying as I look at him.

“Youlook spiffy,” I say finally. It doesn’t come out like a compliment; it sounds more like an accusation.

And he hears it; he gives a snort and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, well, you look unnecessarily hot too,” he says, his voice annoyed. He jerks his chin at me as his eyes trail slowly down my body. “Do you need to be showing that much leg?”

“Look at your shoulders,” I counter, pressing lightly on one of his biceps. “That sweater is way too tight—hey.” I frown as he swats my hand away, still looking annoyed.

“We match,” he says finally after a second of awkward, irritable silence.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice faint. His red sweater—a perfect fit—is the same color as my dress, and a white collar peeks out from underneath. He looks like a holly jolly hottie, which is not great for my clarity of mind.

You do not find this man attractive,I tell myself firmly.

“Get your shoes and let’s go,” Jack says, his jaw ticking as his gaze darts back to me and then away again.

I nod and grab my shoes from the floor by the door, a pair of gorgeous red heels I bought when I was still on that big-city salary. They’re the perfect holiday shoe, closed-toe with an ankle strap that ties into a bow.

“Good grief,” I hear Jack mutter under his breath as I tie the bows; when I look at him, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Do you want me to go barefoot?” I say, snappish now. “You’re in amood. Cut it out.”

“Sorry,” he says. The word gusts out of him, and even though he rubs his hand down his face, his voice is less irritated when he repeats, “Sorry. I’m better. This is fine. I’m fine.” Then he clears his throat. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I say, standing up straight again. Then, because I feel like I probably should, I add, “Sorry. I’m fine too. Just—stressed.”

“We don’t have to stay late,” he says, sounding resigned now. “Let’s give it a couple hours and then split.”

“That sounds good,” I say as relief trickles through me. I can do anything for two hours, including go to Christmas parties I’d rather not attend with old friends who are disconcertingly appealing.

So what? He’s an intelligent, confident man who makes me want to laugh and pull my hair out simultaneously. It’s not like I’ve never met one of those before. It’s not like I’ve never met someone who seems determined to take care of me?—

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