The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

RYAN

“Why were you having lunch together?” Anabelle asks, gesturing between me and Cynthia. We’re in the inn, sitting on the sofa in the Santa room. Anabelle’s on one side of me, and Cynthia is on the other. It’s hours before Hot Chocolate Happy Hour, but Anabelle’s sipping some cinnamon whiskey, which Cynthia insists is medicinal. She’s supposed to be back at work, but she told her boss she needed an extra hour or two off to deal with a family emergency.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling a bit like a live wire next to a spark plug. Not just because I want to touch Anabelle. I’m still fantasizing about beating the shit out of Weston for talking to her like that. So I get to my feet and start pacing.

Anabelle tilts her head, studying me as if I’m a fascinating animal at the zoo. I walk faster.

“I interviewed for a historical interpreter job,” I finally answered.

“You did ?”

“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “They kind of felt the way you do.”

“Your accent was abysmal.” Cynthia grins at me. “It was the most entertaining thing that’s happened at work since the guys circulated that video of Weston getting his ass handed to him.”

“Too soon,” Anabelle mutters. “And I didn’t mean it like that, Ryan. I just didn’t realize you were looking for a job here.”

I shrug. “I applied for a lot of odd jobs. I need to keep busy. I’m no good at sitting around.”

Cynthia points at the tumbler clutched in Anabelle’s hand. “Bottoms up.”

Anabelle takes a sip, her eyes finding me again. “So you applied for a job, and it didn’t go well?”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” I say with amusement. “A not-so-nice way of putting it would be that I got rejected from a job sweeping up horse shit, so Cynthia and that guy Jeremy took pity on me and offered to take me out to lunch.”

“It seemed like the only kind thing to do,” Cynthia says, giving me a wink.

I laugh, mostly because Cynthia’s full of shit. Not in a bad way, but she’s the kind of woman who flirts with everyone and only means it about two percent of the time. You ask me, she’s interested in getting her hands on Jeremy Jacobs’s trumpet. Unfortunately, based on what she’s told me, he’s also the kind of person who flirts with everyone, only he means it more like eighty to ninety percent of the time.

I reach the Christmas tree and turn around, pacing back toward the couch, but I stop when I see Anabelle’s pale face. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, and I have an idea of where…

“What did Weston say to you?” I ask, trying not to growl. “We didn’t hear it all.”

She worries her hands, and I grind my molars together as I wait for her to tell me something that’s guaranteed to piss me off.

“I think he threatened me,” she says, her eyes widening. “He wants me to sell him the B&B, and when I told him it was never going to happen, he said he was going to help me run it into the ground.”

Rage charges through me. “I’d like to run him into the ground.”

“Yes, you’re very strong,” Cynthia remarks. “Your accent might have sucked, but you did shovel an impressive quantity of horse shit.”

I sigh and close the distance to the couch, slumping back onto it next to Anabelle. My feet still feel like they have springs in them, but I want to comfort her, and I’ve been told there’s nothing comforting about someone who gives off caged-predator vibes.

Anabelle turns toward me, her arm brushing mine, and I’m suddenly deeply aware of how close she is, how warm. How single .

I clear my throat. “You okay?”

“Oh no, not at all.” She laughs, then hiccups, then says, “But I think I will be. I guess that’s something, isn’t it?”

“It’s everything. Don’t worry about Weston. I meant what I said. We’re not going to let him hurt you.”

“No way,” Cynthia agrees, “and if he tries, I’ll hire Jeremy to follow him around everywhere and play a soundtrack to his life.”

“Maybe we should do that anyway,” I joke. Well. Sort of joke. Let’s be honest, it would be epic to have that douchebag followed around everywhere with a trumpet.

“Jeremy could play the sad violin song every time something bad happens to Weston,” Anabelle says, “and ‘Celebration’ whenever he goes on a date or makes a business deal. The possibilities are endless.” She’s joking around, but I can tell her heart isn’t in it. Hopefully not because part of it still belongs to Weston. I said it myself—sometimes people want what’s not good for them, so I know better than to assume she doesn’t have any remaining feelings for him. Hell, I’ve slept with plenty of women who treated me like a dirty secret, and it didn’t stop me from going back for seconds.

Anabelle shakes her head. “Actually, no, it’s possible he would enjoy the attention.”

“That would make it less fun,” Cynthia agrees, then makes a drinking motion to Anabelle, who smiles as she takes another sip of her whiskey.

“What can we do?” I ask.

Anabelle thinks about it for a second, and I remember that no one has successfully relied on me for anything…

Until I look up and see Grandma Edith’s portrait hanging on the wall. I haven’t let her down, not yet. I may have showed up one day late, but I came. And I brought the ornament back. That’s something I can build on, isn’t it?

“There is something…” She glances between Cynthia and me, and too late, I get the sense that she’s going to ask a question I’ll have a hard time answering. “Do you think the changes I’ve made to the inn are a problem? Please be honest.”

I crack my knuckles, feeling all of the Santas staring at me in accusation. “Yes.”

“Ryan,” Cynthia warns, giving me a look that says I’ve failed in my assigned mission to be cool and agreeable.

“I’m not saying you should get rid of the Santas.” I lift my hands in submission, meeting Anabelle’s eyes. “But it’s confusing. The inn’s called The Crooked Quill, and you don’t mention your Christmas collection in any of the advertising. Maybe you need to go all in. Change the name. The décor. Offer Christmas-themed tours of Williamsburg. Make it a whole thing. Hell, you could even crowdsource the name.” I twist my mouth to the side. “And, you know, maybe spread the Santas out a little so it doesn’t feel like the people who come in here are facing down an army of little red men.”

Cynthia frowns. “I don’t know. I mean, a Christmas B&B at Christmas makes sense, but what about in March when everyone wants to get wasted on green beer?”

“Look at all those Disney adults. They want to live there all the time. There are adults who are like that with Christmas. Like you, Anabelle.”

Her gaze lifts, and I follow it to the portrait of Grandma Edith, feeling a pulse of sympathy in my chest. Shit. She doesn’t want to change what her grandma built, I get it. Well, I don’t really get it. As previously established, the only father figure I ever had was a man who taught me to lean into my worse impulses. So I don’t know what it would be like to have a sweet grandmother who bakes you cookies and tells you you’re a good person.

“I’ll need to give it some thought,” she finally says, wringing her hands. I have the desperate urge to take her hand and start massaging it, but that’s probably me being dumb again.

“Why don’t you go on upstairs,” I say. “I’ll bet that hellcat is looking for you.”

She smiles at me, and it reaches her eyes, thank God. She’s pulling out of the funk Westie put her in.

“Are you sure Saint Nick isn’t looking for you ?” she asks. “He seems fixed on digging a hole through the wall.”

“Then I hope you’ll climb through after him and save me,” I say, then immediately imagine her being in that small room with me.

And the damn cat , a voice whispers, waking me up to reality. Reality being that Anabelle might be single, but I’m still a former criminal.

“I’ll make you some dinner like last night,” I say, changing the subject.

Her hand lifts to her throat. “You really made that?”

“The soup, not the rolls. Cynthia had some in the pantry.” Her hand is still cupped around her throat, and I have to smile. “I didn’t poison you, you know.”

“It was really good,” she says. “And your breakfast sandwich looked delicious yesterday morning too. You like to cook.”

There’s something in her eyes—a sparkle. The kind she gets for anything related to Christmas.

“Why don’t you interview for a job in a kitchen?” she presses.

Cynthia snorts. “You’d be better off shoveling horse shit than being a line cook.”

Anabelle shakes her head in response, watching me with a hopeful look. “You have trouble sitting still. As a line cook, you’d never be sitting still.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” Cynthia agrees. Tilting her head, she asks, “What if you film yourself cooking naked? You could be an online sensation.”

“ Cynthia ,” Anabelle snaps. “He doesn’t need to demean himself for other people’s entertainment. We’ll leave that to Jeremy Jacobs.”

“Nothing demeaning about having a tight body and wanting to show it off.”

“Ryan isn’t Jeremy.”

“Nope,” I agree, “but I’d have just as much of a bulge in my tights. Scout’s honor.”

Anabelle looks like she’s fighting a smile as she shakes her head at me. The tip of her nose is pink from the cold outside, and her hair has settled into wild waves around her shoulders. She’s beautiful in a way that’s a gut punch. I’ve never known anyone like her. So passionate but prim, so funny but literal, so herself .

“There’s no way you were a boy scout,” she says.

Laughter escapes me. I lean over to gently shove my shoulder against hers, probably just for an excuse to touch her. “I’ll have you know that I was kicked out of the scouts after two weeks, but for those two weeks, I was one hell of a boy scout.”

“What’d you do to get kicked out?”

“We were on a camping trip, and the troop leader had this cooler of food that was just for him, while we were stuck eating canned green beans. So my brother and I stole his stash and held a party in our tent, but we got caught and were kicked out.”

“So you led a revolt,” Anabelle says with amusement in her eyes. “You’re in the right place. Williamsburg played a significant role in the American Revolution. But I have to say you and I probably wouldn’t have gotten along very well as kids. I had very strict views about following the rules when I was younger.”

“And you don’t still?” I ask with a grin, but inside, my heart starts thumping faster.

“That depends on whether they’re sensible rules. Some aren’t. Do you know that it’s illegal to flip a coin to decide who pays for coffee in Richmond? And in Norfolk, you can’t spit on a seagull.”

“Who would spit on a seagull?” I ask.

“You haven’t spent much time on the beach, have you?” Cynthia says with a snort. Her comment comes as a surprise, to be honest, because I sort of forgot she was in the room with us.

“Not really, no,” I admit.

“Will you apply for line cook jobs?” Anabelle asks, reminding me that she’s not a person who forgets.

I find myself nodding, my gaze still transfixed on her. “Sure, might as well add some restaurants to the list of places that won’t call me back.”

“You’ll get a job if you want one,” she insists. “People like you. You know how to talk to them. That’s a valuable skill.”

“Thank you, Anabelle,” I say, my voice coming out hoarse. No one’s ever told me I’m good at much of anything.

“I guess I’ll go upstairs if you two are okay with holding Hot Chocolate Happy Hour.”

No one’s come for the past two days, so I nod. What’s one more day of sitting in here for an hour and getting eyed by the Santas while I send off job applications?

“Of course. I’ve got it covered,” I say.

Cynthia went back to work, and Anabelle said she was going to her favorite spot for thinking, which is apparently in her bedroom with her yowling cat.

I’m not expecting anyone to show up for happy hour, so I get excited for approximately thirty seconds when a big, bearded dude wearing a utility jacket and jeans shows up at the front door.

“Are you here for hot chocolate?” I ask, eager for something to happen, even if it’s a conversation with a stranger who has a thing for women wearing bonnets. I mean…why else would a dude travel to Colonial Williamsburg by himself other than to fulfill a promise to a dead woman?

But the guy gives me a hard look and says, “I don’t take bribes.”

“Wasn’t offering one. Who are you, if you’re not one of Anabelle’s guests?”

I’ve never seen the guy before, and I’ve been hanging out in and around the inn for the last few days.

“I’m a building inspector. It’s been reported that several areas of this building aren’t up to code.”

Goddamn, the trumpet thing must have really pissed Westie off.

“I’m guessing this report was anonymous?” I ask, still standing in the doorway.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” He shifts on his feet, looking nervous suddenly.

“Can I see your credentials?”

He hands over a business card, and I look it over. His name is Sam Jones. It looks straightforward enough, but I have reason to be suspicious. I was always given identities that looked legit before Roark sent me on a job.

“The owner isn’t around,” I lie. “It would be more appropriate for you to come back when she’s here to accompany you. Making an appointment would help.”

“You’re here,” he says gruffly.

“Yes, but she’s the owner.”

The guy looks like he’d love nothing better than to shove his way past me, but the rule of law is on my side for once. Well, I’m guessing. I actually don’t know shit about property law.

He pulls out his phone and messes with the screen, then looks up. “Friday at noon.”

“You can ask the property owner,” I say with emphasis. “Her contact information is available on the inn’s website. I’m sure she’ll get back to you promptly.”

“You don’t want to make this any harder than it needs to be, friend.” His tone is hostile, and he shuffles on his feet again, as if he needs to take a piss and is anxious to get inside so he can use the bathroom. If there was any truth to that, I’d probably let him, but I have a feeling old Westie is behind this sudden visit. I suspect he’s planning to hit Anabelle with an avalanche of code violations before he makes her a lowball offer to “save” the business.

I tilt my head and crack my knuckles, feeling like this guy deserves some intimidation in exchange for intimidation. “You wouldn’t be implying you’re not going to do your job properly, are you, friend ? There might be people you work with who’d care about that. Obviously not whoever sent you over here, but if I dig deep enough, I’m sure I’ll find someone who’s honest. The woman who owns this building is. If there’s a genuine problem, she’ll fix it.”

“She’d better.” He glares at me in silence for a full ten seconds, but I don’t budge. Recognizing defeat, he turns to leave in a huff.