Page 59 of Presley's Christmas Catch
Mr. Westcott’s jaw ticks, and I suspect his frustration is over Mrs. Westcott bringing private detectives to the party to grill the guests. I press my own lips together to keep from gasping or blubbering out a confession. This will mean extra eyes on me while I try to return the ring and I don’t know if I’m a good enough actor if I get questioned.
“We’re happy to help in any way we can,” Mom assures her. Dad hums in agreement, and we move forward. Before we’re out of earshot, I hear Mrs. Westcott imparting the same warning to the guests who came in behind us.
“Change in plan?” Brock asks lowly. “Considering we know now that she has some kind of security team onsite?”
I shake my head. “No way. Tonight is the night. I’ll be extra careful.”
He draws in a breath. “Extra careful doing what, Pres? You haven’t told me how we’re doing this.”
“Keeping it simple,” I say, tamping down my nerves. If Brock sees me scared in any way, he’ll put a stop to this. Probably take the ring, march it up to Mrs. Westcott, and take whatever heat comes with it. I can’t let him do that. “We’ll admire the tree,” I go on. “You block any view while I set it down, then we walk away casually.” I shrug, but my stomach twists. This will be easy. Besides, I didn’t do anything except find the ring in a box.
Everything will be fine.
I look up at Brock, and his steady gaze warms me, replacing the twisting in my stomach.
“Simple,” he repeats. He slides his hand into mine and holds my gaze. His eyes go soft.
“Checkmate,” I whisper.
He tilts his head. “What?”
I lean into him. “What’s going on, Brock?”
He brushes a curl from my cheek. “Trust me.”
I open my mouth to tell him that my feelings haven’t changed, if anything they’ve grown, and I’m sure he feels the same. That I’m going to kiss him and put us both out of our misery, but it all dies in my throat at the way he’s looking at me. The intensity of his gaze could burn right through me. It sends shivers across my skin, leaving goosebumps prickling on my arms. My knees even go a little wobbly.
“Okay.”
Keeping hold of my hand, he leads me into the party and straight to the tree. I’m with him. I want to get this ring out of my possession and enjoy the rest of the night. We stand together, staring at it, pretending to admire the decorations and themillions of little lights on it. It’s huge. Over fifteen feet, at least. A sparkling silver tree skirt is rumpled artfully around the bottom.
Both of our gazes dart across the crowd, looking for the “gentlemen” that Mrs. Westcott warned us about. “Clear?” he says, but it sounds like a question.
I don’t see anyone suspicious looking. Would these guys stand out? Or has Mrs. Westcott thrown around enough cash that they’ll be good at blending in. I summon all my confidence. “Clear,” I say, even though I’m anything but sure about that.
I unzip my clutch and pull the velvet box out, cupping it in my hand. Brock steps behind me and I crouch, setting the velvet box down.
I stand quickly, and Brock puts his arms around me from behind, as though we’ve been standing like this the whole time. He kisses the side of my head, like he did on Friday night when we were reading and I was crying. It’s the most comforting thing even though it shouldn’t be. The touch of his lips should send my heart rate rocketing out of control. The softness of them, the smell of his cologne, pine and oranges, the way his lips shift my hair.
And yet, it makes me feel safe.
I stare down at the box, surprising disappointment filtering through me at the thought of walking away and leaving it there. Even if I’d kept it, I may have never known how Aunt Shannon got it. There’s too much about her I’ll never know, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t just hand this over to the police as soon as I found it. It represents all the little things. I swallow back emotion because this isn’t the place I want to break down over the years I lost. Brock tightens his arms around me, and I squeeze gratefully where I’m holding onto them.
A moment later he lets me go, and we step away from the tree, hand in hand.
There’s a string quartet this year providing the music, but it’s all instrumental covers of popular songs. When we first came in,it was an Arianna Grande cover, but they’ve switched to “Last Christmas,” slowed down in a way that somehow works.
“Let’s dance?” Brock asks.
“Of course.”
He leads me to the middle of the room, where several other couples are also swaying. I catch sight of my parents talking to another couple from their neighborhood, the Beaumonts, I think. I’ve met them a time or two when Dad has a barbecue. Mom winks at me. I raise my eyebrows at her, but she turns back to Mrs. Beaumont without acknowledging my reaction.
New guess: Brock knew the color of my dress because my mom told him. How did the meddlers get my parents involved in this? And what do they have up Brock’s sleeve?
As he slides his arm around my waist and takes my hand in his, I forget why I care. As long as Brock’s in on it—and judging from how close he’s pulled me to him, Brock’s in on it—it doesn’t matter. If it includes kissing Brock under the mistletoe, I approve. I peer around the room, hoping to find some, and notice that the silver tree skirt is clear of any gifts, especially ones in black velvet boxes.
That’s unnerving. Well, it’s probably good that someone found it quickly. I think. I swallow. It’s over, and I should be relieved. Sadness pricks at my chest, but it’s the same questions. How did Aunt Shannon get the ring? Why did she leave it to me? Did I do the right thing by giving it back? I mean, of course I did, but is that what Aunt Shannon meant for me to do? Maybe once the Westcotts announce the ring is home safe and sound, more answers will start popping up.
