The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

RYAN

For the past hour, I’ve been sitting on my bed googling local jobs, because if I’m going to potentially be here for weeks, I can’t sit on my ass the whole time. My body is already thrumming, wanting to move, to do, to see, to make. I might not have many talents, but I have energy to spare. I’ve always been like that, like an overcharged battery waiting to explode if I don’t move enough. So far I’ve applied for a bartending job, two waiter jobs, a Christmas-tree-cutting gig, and a Santa job at a local toy store.

I’m looking up local gyms when the sound of a door slamming echoes through the whole building. Even the floors seem to tremble. Seconds later, the door to the room next to mine closes forcefully, and my jaw tightens with anger. Especially when I hear a second set of footsteps moving up the stairs seconds later.

That asshole.

I knew I didn’t like Weston. He’s a man who talks down to people and expects them to look up.

I step out of my room just as he makes it to the top stair. His cheeks are red. I’m pleased to see his hair is a mess and he looks pissed off.

He’s about to be more pissed off.

I step in front of Anabelle’s door.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Weston demands, his face getting redder. He sweeps bright blond hair out of his face as he stops several steps away.

“She just stormed up here and slammed the door.” I lift my eyebrows. “Does that sound like the behavior of someone who’d like to be bothered?”

“This is between me and my girlfriend,” he snarls. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’s on the edge, and I won’t lie—I’d like to push him off it. But I settle for standing my ground and nonverbally pointing out the obvious. He may be taller, but I’m a hell of a lot fitter. If I don’t want to let him past me, he’s not getting past.

I want to ask him what he did to her.

But if he tells me, I might be tempted to punch him. Punching could lead to an arrest, and I don’t know anyone in town who could bail me out.

“You’re out of line,” he says, pointing a finger at me.

I reach up and swat it away, putting enough muscle behind it that he’ll recognize what he’s dealing with. “Probably,” I agree. “But so are you. Go home and cool off.”

He gives me a look that he probably hopes will kill me, but lucky me, he’s no superhero.

“We’ll talk about this later, Anabelle,” he says, peering past me. “This isn’t over.”

The door doesn’t open, and there’s no noise from the other side. It’s as if she’s climbed out the window. Hell, maybe she did.

Giving me another death glare, he says, “You should mind your own business. You have no place here.”

The joke’s on him. I have no place anywhere.

I stare at him evenly, and he turns and stalks off down the stairs, straightening the collar of his coat. His posture is as ramrod straight as if someone stuck a broom up his ass. No one’s ever accused me of maturity, so of course I give his back the bird. Then I stand there and wait, watching until he leaves and the front door shuts behind him.

Turning, I face Anabelle’s door. I find myself flattening my palm against the wood as if my hand could send a silent message. Maybe I’m truly losing it, because I can almost feel her smaller hand pressing back from the other side.

“He’s gone now,” I say.

It’s completely quiet in the room, and for a minute, I think she really did sneak out through the back. Either that or she has no more interest in talking to me right now than she did in talking to him.

But then she whispers, “Thank you,” her voice so soft I can barely hear it.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” I ask, because if he did, there’s still time for me to run him down and lay into him. I’d do it too, despite knowing I’d probably get thrown into the can for it.

“No, nothing like that,” she says softly. “But I think I need to be alone now.”

Her voice is sad, too sad.

“Can I help you, Anabelle? Anything you need. Your grandmother...” I swallow, unable to finish. I’m talking to a damn door, and I’m getting choked up. Get it together. “She helped me out when I was in a low place. Let me do something for you. Please. ”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and then the door creaks open.

I’m stunned to see she’s wearing my sweater.

Something primal in me is pleased.

Her hair hangs down around her shoulders in honeyed brown waves. There’s a glassy look in her eyes, but she seems unharmed, thank God.

“Would you…” She looks away. “I’m sorry, Ryan. This is totally inappropriate.”

“I told you I’d do anything.”

“I forgot to officially cancel Hot Chocolate Happy Hour. I…Weston’s right. No one will probably come, but if you could sit down there at five for an hour or so… And top up the hot chocolate. There are supplies in the kitchen. It’s—”

“I remember. And it’s no problem. It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” she says again, her voice stronger. “That’s very good of you. All the rooms are full, so there won’t be anyone checking in or out. If any of the guests need anything, they have my phone number. I keep it in all the rooms.”

I’m dying to know what happened, but I don’t want to be one more burden for her. I won’t be.

So I just watch as she softly closes the door, her body engulfed in my blue sweater, and I vow to myself that while I might not know what I’m doing here, or what I’m going to be doing here for the indefinite future, I am going to pull off one hell of a Hot Chocolate Happy Hour.

There’s only Baileys in the cabinet, which feels insufficient for a happy hour. So I run to the store to pick up some cinnamon whiskey and peppermint schnapps, some big-ass marshmallows shaped like Christmas trees, and a couple of packages of cookies. When I get back, I top off the hot chocolate and head into the scary Santa parlor with the goods. No one’s there yet, and according to Anabelle, there’s a pretty good chance no one’s going to be there, period, so I pour myself some of the whiskey, sit down on the couch, and continue the job search on my phone.

Maybe I should be panicking—I don’t have a job, a high school degree, or any bankable abilities, I’m still at odds with my brother, and I’m in a place where I don’t know anyone. Hell, maybe I am panicking, deep inside, but a part of me feels relieved . I’ve got a clean slate, and even if I don’t know what to fill it with, it’s better than having a slate full of bullshit.

I set down the phone after a few minutes and pace around the room, taking in the changes since last Christmas. The Santa Clauses have moved in, of course, and the tree is bigger this year—a seven footer. It’s like Christmas vomited all over the room. What I’m saying is it’s too much— much too much—and yet it’s not without charm.

I hear the creak of floorboards. Excitement leaps inside me, and when I look outside the double doors, I see a middle-aged woman beelining for the stairs.

“Care for some hot chocolate?” I ask, and she flinches in surprise and nearly trips over her feet before turning to face me.

“Who are you ?”

“I’m Anabelle’s friend, Ryan. I’m running happy hour for her.”

She glances at the credenza with something like longing, but then her gaze pings to the Santa Clauses and her lips firm into a line of distaste. “No, thank you. Those dolls will be haunting my dreams. I see no reason why I should let them haunt my daylight hours too.”

I don’t deny the point. I’m none too fond of staring eyes watching me either.

I’d offer the woman a hot chocolate to go, but before I can say anything else, she’s hurrying up the stairs like a fleet of Santa Clauses are chasing her.

Maybe someone should talk to Anabelle about the Santa Clauses. It may be an award-winning collection, but that doesn’t mean they’re not scary, grouped in here like a gang.

No one else comes by, so I return to my drink and my phone. The only other people who have this number are Javier and his buddy Bad Mike, so I’m not surprised to see a text from Javier:

You get in okay?

He knows where I am and why, just like I know he and his buddy are cooling their heels in New Jersey.

I respond by sending him a few photos of the room.

You get fucked by Santa yet?

Other than my brother, Javier may be the only friend I’ve got who wouldn’t take me being blackout drunk as an invitation to draw a dick on my face, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be tempted.

Not yet, brother, but give me time. All good on your end?

No sign of snow.

Meaning no movement from Roark. Good.

After an hour, I leave the inn to wander up Duke of Gloucester Street. The air is chilly but not freezing. The shops are bustling, and all of the buildings have fake candles lit in the windows. I feel good. I could dig deeper under that feeling and find all kinds of not-so-good feelings, but I can’t think why I’d want to.

When I get back up to my room, a note has been slipped under my door—

Thank you for helping, Ryan. Seriously. Thank you.

Would you like to go to an estate sale with me tomorrow morning? I’ll be leaving just after we clean up from breakfast, at nine thirty.

Regards,

Anabelle

Smiling, I create a little checkbox at the bottom of the note, check it, and scrawl hell yes next to it. Then I go slide it under her door—and wait until I hear the rasp of her pulling the paper to her.

I’m grinning as I head back to my room, although I don’t have the boner for estate sales my former boss used to. He had a talent for looking at objects and knowing their worth. I never have. But I already know what she’s worth.