The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

RYAN

Watching Anabelle in her element is something else. It’s hard to look away.

Something awakened inside of her the second we got to the house, a big old colonial with skinny spindles on the porch that look like they’d snap like toothpicks if someone gave them a shove.

She asks a uniformed woman where the Christmas things are being kept, and we’re led into a large, drafty room where several objects sit out on folding plastic tables. There are larger bins beneath them with cardboard labels reading $5 .

I watch with fascination as Anabelle starts to methodically go through the items laid out on the first table. She touches each thing worshipfully, sweeping the soft pads of her fingers over it to take in the wear. Her whole being lights up when she picks up a carved wooden Santa Claus that looks no different from at least five others in her collection at the inn. The glow inside of her isn’t like a match but a firework.

She motions me over and, in a hushed undertone that’s so adorable I’m surprised complete strangers aren’t drawn to her, says, “This is one of the real ones, Ryan. What do you notice about it?”

I take a closer look and still find it unremarkable, but I know better than to say so. My gaze catches on the worn paint on the belly, and I remember what she said in the car. “Someone’s been rubbing his bowlful of jelly,” I say.

She grins at me. “With love.”

“Or maybe they just liked the way it felt. I used to have a rabbit’s foot when I was a kid—”

Her nose wrinkles. “Gross.”

“Disgusting,” I agree. “But I loved the way it felt so much that I wore off all the fur.”

“Exactly.” She’s beaming now, approval coming off her in waves, and I feel like I aced a test for the first time in my life. Then she runs her finger across the Santa’s worn belly with that same big smile on her face, and I can almost see the old knickknack through her eyes—the something beautiful seeping out from the wood.

“Can’t you imagine it?” Her voice is low, her words meant just for me. “The little kids rubbing his belly, discussing which cookies they should leave out for him on Christmas?”

I swallow through a dry throat. This woman is something else. Everything about her is unexpected. Special , a voice in my head whispers. But Anabelle can’t be special to me. She may have broken up with her dickwad boyfriend, or close enough, but she’s off-limits. Her grandmother didn’t ask me to get rid of him so I could take his place.

“Do you notice anything about this Santa’s face?” Anabelle asks, glancing at me over her treasure.

I take a closer look. Again, it looks like any other Santa Claus, until I see what she spotted immediately. Grinning, I say, “Looks like he got a nail polish makeover.”

“He was loved ,” she says sadly, and those big deer eyes hook onto something inside of me. When this woman’s looking at me, it’s damn hard to look away.

“Are you going to buy it?”

“I don’t have any other choice,” she says firmly. “Let’s look for other finds.”

She explains that she chooses some things because they’re valuable, others because they were loved, and still others because they can be repurposed into different pieces or used to decorate old trees.

“You’re staring at me. Have I been talking too much?” she asks. Then her eyes widen. “Do I have something on my face?”

I shake my head. “No. No one’s given you a nail polish makeover. It’s just…you’re so into this stuff. I’ve never had anything like that.”

Her mouth parts, then firms. “Don’t worry. You’re going to find your shade of nail polish.”

I laugh. “All right.”

“And I’m going to help you find something real here. Because it’s special to own something someone else loved.” Her gaze turns far-off and dreamy, her eyes as shiny as copper pennies as she adds, “When you love something someone else loved, someone who’s gone or has moved on, it’s like having a beautiful connection with a stranger. You’re doing your part to keep love alive.” She shakes her head as if she thinks she’s just said something stupid, and not the most profound thing I’ve ever heard. “I’m being—”

I catch her hand, feeling a spark blaze into a bonfire in my chest, and her eyes widen. “I truly hope you were about to say something like ‘brilliant,’ ‘amazing,’ or ‘fantastic.’”

She laughs and then presses her small hand to her throat, as if she can’t believe the laughter is coming from her. More heat fills me. I’d like to layer my hand over hers so I can feel her laughter too, so I can feel the vibration in the palm of my hand.

The laughter fades, and she looks at me like she’s seeing down to my soul. “What do you need, Ryan? Where should we start looking?”

Damn, isn’t that the question, though. What do I need? I need my brother to think I’m worth a damn, because it’s the only way I’ll feel like I am.

A sense of purpose would be nice.

But right now, looking at her, my gut is giving me a different answer.

I gulp. “A watch,” I say, my voice sounding strangled. “I need a new watch.”

“What happened to your old one?” she asks, giving me a look that suggests she knows that something did indeed happen to it.

The only object I’ve ever cared much about was the watch Roark gave me for my eighteenth birthday—the same watch I’d tried to pickpocket from him when I was thirteen. But I’d stuffed it into the back of my drawer years ago, after realizing that I wasn’t as important to him as he was to me. And after Jake turned his back on me, I threw it away.

Of course, I felt like a dumbass for tossing it. It had to be worth at least two large. Still, I don’t regret it. I haven’t even thought about getting a new one until right this very minute.

Pulling myself from my thoughts, I finally reply, “I threw it away.”

“But you loved it.” She shakes her head at herself with a half-smile on her face. “I’m projecting. I can never tell what people are going to say before they say it.”

“You’re right, though.” A knot forms in my throat. “But sometimes the things we love aren’t good for us.”

“So let’s find you something that is.”

She guides me out of the room, her reusable shopping bag full of Christmas goodies, and finds the attendant. She asks about watches, and we’re directed into another drafty room. The jewelry is displayed on a saggy old table in the center, spotlit by sun streaming in through the window. A guard stands at the door, because while people might not be tempted to steal nail-polish-decorated Santas, they might want some old jewelry.

We walk over to the part of the table where a few watches are displayed. There’s one with a leather band and two with metal bands, like the one I threw away. The two with the metal bands are objectively nicer.

I glance at Anabelle, feeling out of my element. “Which one should I get?”

“Which one feels real ?” she asks.

It sounds like some woo-woo nonsense, or it would if anyone else were saying it, but I find myself drifting my fingers over the watches laid out in front of me. Trying to look through her eyes, I notice the wear on the leather strap and imagine someone putting it on every day, their fingers brushing over the leather.

My fingers drift over it too, and I feel a strange jolt. My eyes fly to Anabelle’s, and she’s already smiling at me. “That’s the one, isn’t it? It’s meant to be yours.”

“You’re a witch, aren’t you?” I ask, smiling back because I have to. It would be impossible not to. “A Christmas witch.”

Her smile brightens as she adjusts her shopping bag over her shoulder. I want to carry it for her, but she might read into an offer like that. She probably should, which gives me an even better reason not to make it. I like her more than I should. More than is healthy for either of us.

“Oddly enough, I consider that a compliment,” she says.

I swallow thickly. “Oddly enough, I meant it as one.”

I check the price tag on the watch and find it acceptable, even though the money I have saved up won’t last forever, and I will eventually need to find a real job.

“Screw it. I’m going to get it,” I say, meeting her gaze. Looking for her approval, to be honest.

She beams at me, and I feel like a prize pupil for the first time in my whole life.

We’re heading toward the front of the house, where we were told to check out, when someone calls Anabelle’s name from the hallway behind us. We turn to face an older bald man wearing an expensive suit that feels overkill for what’s basically a high-ticket yard sale. His hair is combed forward, including a few long, wispy tendrils on the top of his head. The moment Anabelle sees him, she nearly drops the shopping bag, so I silently take it from her. Her gaze meets mine for half a second, her eyes full of gratitude and…fear.

Oh, I don’t like that one fucking bit.

Suit Guy keeps coming, strutting more than walking. There’s a broad grin on his face as he stops a few steps away. “Do you have some good news for me, sweetheart?”

His gaze dips to her left hand, which she shoves into her pocket. “Dad…”

For the first time, the guy turns toward me, giving me a look that speaks a thousand words— go away being the first and second.

“I’m Ryan,” I say, forcing a grin. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Are you the one who got Anabelle into estate sales?”

I hold my hand out for a shake, and he ignores it. A man and a woman squeeze by us, giving us annoyed looks. But as soon as they get past, the man turns to check out Anabelle’s ass—so I reach out and wave my unshaken hand at him. He snaps to so quickly he probably cracked his spine.

When I turn back, Anabelle’s dad is still staring at me. “You’re the one my mother left that note for.”

“That’d be me,” I confirm. “She was quite a lady.”

“Yeah,” he says tightly, his jaw flexing. “ Quite. ”

Oh, hell no. Grandma Edith doesn’t deserve that. I glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already shifted his disapproving frown to Anabelle. “You shouldn’t be personally giving guests tours,” he says. “Your job is at the B&B. You insisted you wanted the job, so do it.”

Her expression is frozen, almost like she’s gone somewhere else and left behind her body.

Nope. Not standing silently by and letting this asshole go on a rampage of assholery. He started something by talking shit about Grandma Edith. I won’t let him get away with putting Anabelle down too.

“Actually, sir ,” I say. “It’s called customer service. I’m guessing it’s a good thing Edith left the B&B to someone who appreciates what that means.”

He looks like he just went on the show Hot Ones and swallowed a whole mouthful of ghost pepper hot sauce.

Anabelle tugs my arm, her eyes wide but no longer frozen. “You’re right, Dad. I need to get back to the inn. We’ll talk later.”

A man with a long beard squeezes past us, headed for the Christmas room, and I catch Anabelle’s eye and mouth, “Santa.”

She smiles, which seems to piss off her father.

“You’re going to let your friend disrespect me?” he says in a rumbling voice.

“You started it,” she replies firmly.

He holds her gaze, ignoring me as if I’m part of the scenery. “If you rejected Weston, then you’re a fool.”

Her bottom lip trembles, but she keeps her backbone steady, and my God, I’ve never wanted to punch a man in the face this much before. But we’re in the middle of a dead person’s house, and he’s Anabelle’s father . Still, I can’t do nothing. I think I’d implode if I did nothing.

“You’re the fool for talking to your daughter like that,” I say, letting myself shift one step toward him. He slinks back like I thought he would, and to my delight, his calves hit a wooden bench that someone set up in the front hall. His legs buckle, bucketing him onto the seat, and he makes a little oomph of surprise.

Anabelle stifles a surprised laugh, and I grin at him as I say, “Anabelle deserves to live her life exactly the way she wants to live it.”

Though his face is the shade of homemade tomato soup now, he recovers more quickly than I would have liked. “Don’t you get it? She’s not normal. She’ll never be normal.”

“Thank God,” I say, thinking of the way she brushed her fingers over the Christmas table earlier. Wishing he’d try to get up so I could at least have the pleasure of shoving him back down.

I turn to look at Anabelle, because if she looks pissed off, I’m going to take that as a go-ahead to deck this guy, but she’s gone.