The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ANABELLE

Santas sold: 3

Santas bought: 0

B their dog’s name—Udolpho; and what they do for a living—he’s a brand manager, whatever that means, and she’s an author. They’re here to celebrate the release of her book.

It’s fascinating to me, the way information gushes out of some people as if they’ve turned into hoses. I can’t keep up, and most of the time I’m not tempted to try. So I didn’t say much at first, but after they praised my holiday decorations, Ryan pointed out that I am knowledgeable about Christmas attractions in the area. And I actually enjoyed myself as I gave them information on what they can see and experience locally at this time of year.

You’re getting too reliant on him , a voice in my head whispers.

It is an exceedingly correct voice, because Ryan has only been here for a few days, but I can barely remember what life was like before he showed up one day late. He’s so good to me, to everyone , and the contrast between him and Weston is profound. It’s impossible to comprehend how I willingly spent so much time with such a small-minded, exacting man, especially after what happened at the restaurant yesterday, followed by the inspector stopping by the house only five hours later.

I get dressed for the day while Saint Nick stalks me. While I would like nothing better than to stay up here and hide away from my problems by pouring myself into crafting, I can’t abandon my guests or the B&B. I need to face my problems before they turn into a giant and swallow me up.

So I head downstairs to check in with Cynthia, who will have finished breakfast service but should probably still be here.

To my astonishment, the dining room is not empty when I come down. Enoch and Grace are still sitting in front of half-finished plates of pancakes, Ryan eating across from them, and Lauryn, the single mom who’s staying in Room F, is talking animatedly to Cynthia while her son sketches in his book.

My heart grows in my chest. This room was always a hive of activity and fun when my grandmother was alive. She knew how to bring people together. I never have. Scenes like this—so happy and alive with joy—have always drawn me in, but I feel like a moth flirting with flames. If I went in there, the fun would probably die. People would leave. The room would be empty within five minutes.

So I stand by the door, frozen, until Ryan looks up. His eyes light up when he sees me. “There she is!”

Cynthia drops her fork and gets up. “Oh, thank Chr—” Her gaze drops to the little boy. “Thank goodness. You’re always on time for breakfast, and today Ryan came down before you. I figured you’d taken a knock to the head or something.”

“Sorry,” I say, stepping inside the room. “I didn’t sleep well.”

Ryan gets to his feet too. “I’m going to go get you some coffee and breakfast. You eat pancakes, right? What am I talking about, everyone likes pancakes.”

“He’s making them in fun shapes,” the little boy says, looking up with a shy smile. He and his mother have been here for four days, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him speak. “I got a Santa hat.”

Ryan lifts a finger dramatically to his lips. “He doesn’t just know when you’re sleeping, Ben. He also knows when you’re telling people’s secrets.”

He winks and claps the little boy on the back as if they’re best buddies, and even though what he said would have scared me silent when I was a kid, the boy beams at him—and then at me .

“What are you going to ask for, Miss Anabelle?” Ben asks.

“For Christmas or as a pancake?” I reply.

“For your pancake.”

I glance at Ryan. His hair is wet from the shower, and the sleeves of his henley shirt are shoved to his elbows, showing off his muscular forearms. There’s a finely detailed tattoo on one of them—a fox made of flames. My mouth goes dry.

“Uh. I want Rudolph.”

Ryan grins at me, his eyes sunbursts of color. “Challenge accepted.”

He heads out the door, cupping my shoulder with his hand as he passes me, and leaves me with the memory of his warm touch and his scent—pancakes and Old Spice.

Cynthia waves me over, and even though I’m still in a bit of a daze, I take two steps toward her before I stop.

My heart pounds fast in my chest as I regard the guests. I’ve decided to do something…unexpected…but it feels right. Okay, in this precise moment, it feels wrong. Surprisingly, though, I want to persist. So I clear my throat and say, “Uh, everyone, if I could have just a few seconds of your time.”

Cynthia’s eyes practically bug out, because I almost never speak directly with the guests unless it’s check-in or checkout or one of them comes to me with a question.

I feel all of them looking at me, Enoch and Grace, Lauryn and her son.

I clear my throat again, then say, “I’m rebranding the B&B. It’s going to be Christmas-themed.”

“Like the pancakes!” the little boy says excitedly. “Mr. Ryan said I could have any Christmas shape I wanted. I was going to ask for a sleigh, but Mom said that would be rude, so I picked something simple.”

I grin at him. “Like the pancakes. Except I think Mr. Ryan probably would have enjoyed the challenge. But I wanted to tell you all that I’d love it if you’d submit some ideas for a new name for the inn. I’m going to put a stocking up by the front desk after I finish breakfast, and I welcome you to put your ideas inside.”

Grace says something encouraging that my brain doesn’t fully process, Lauryn smiles at me, and the little boy shoves a huge bite of pancake into his mouth and speaks through it. “I’m going to put in ten ideas, Mom. I want her to pick mine.”

I sit across from Cynthia, beside Enoch, my heart still beating as fast as a rabbit’s.

“You know,” Cynthia says, leaning toward me. She’s speaking in an undertone that’s probably not enough of an undertone. “You basically just invited everyone to stick a bunch of anonymous dick drawings into your stocking.”

“You might have taken that as an invitation, but I doubt anyone else did.”

In my peripheral vision, I can see Enoch laughing softly. Grace swats his arm and turns to smile at me. “We’re going to go to that special sale you recommended, Anabelle. I can’t wait.”

I smile back. “Oh, you’re going to love it, it’s magical.”

“And we’ll give the name some thought. You know, Enoch is a brand manager.”

“You’d already mentioned it,” he says with a laugh. “I’m very generous with my bad ideas. My halfway decent ones will cost you in whiskey.”

I feel a glow forming inside of me. Maybe I’m not inherently bad at this. Maybe Ryan’s right, and the secret is to combine the things I think I’m bad at with the things I’m good at…

A throat is cleared in an attention-seeking way, and I look up to see Ryan carrying in a plate with great ceremony.

“Mr. Ryan,” Ben says, “that doesn’t look anything like Rudolph. It’s just a big red circle.”

Indeed it is. And I’m already laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face. “You…made…his…nose.”

He grins at me, flashing his teeth. “A red velvet Rudolph nose for the lady,” he says as he sets the plate down in front of me. I get another peek of his muscled, tattooed forearm as he sets the plate down in front of me.

Despite everything, I feel a gush of pure happiness. Of loving this moment. Of wanting to be nowhere else but here, with these people, in this place.

I try the pancake, and it is, of course, delicious.

“You’re a wonderful cook,” I tell him, holding his gaze. He’s stopped in front of me, watching me as closely as if I were a New York Times restaurant reviewer rather than a woman who can barely cook noodles. I feel important when he looks at me like that.

His smile brightens. “I’ve got an interview on Saturday.”

“At a restaurant?” I ask, excited.

“Nah.” His smile falls a little. “But I applied to a few last night. I don’t know if I’ll hear back.”

“Oh, they’ll get back to you,” Cynthia says. “No question. Every restaurant I know of is so hard up I’m surprised they’re not scouring the nursing homes for the power walkers.”

“Sorry,” I say, glancing at Enoch and Grace. “She has a broken filter.”

Enoch snorts. “It’s not a bad idea, actually. They can have my father, if they want him.”

Grace tries not to look amused. “Very funny. Let’s go.”

They do, but they don’t appear to be fleeing, and Lauryn and her son are in no hurry to leave either.

They like it here. It’s possible for people to like it here.

I take another bite of my delicious pancake, and Cynthia turns toward Ryan, who has claimed Enoch’s chair. “Anabelle has decided she’s moving forward with the Christmas rebrand. She’s running a contest to see if anyone can come up with a new name for the inn. Now, this is the important part, so pay attention. She’s going to hang up a stocking by her desk so the guests can put their ideas inside.” Glancing at Ben, who’s chatting away to his mother like a magpie, she lowers her voice. “How many dicks do you think she’s going to get?”

“Five, and all from you,” he says without missing a beat, and I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my bite of pancake.

After I swallow, I say, “That’s what I told her.”

He grins at me. “Great minds think alike.”

But my mind isn’t like other people’s minds, and I know it, so I just smile back.

A couple of hours later, I’m not smiling.

Jeremy Jacobs and Ryan have just come up from the basement, and Jeremy informed me that the pipes look like they’ve spent the last century at the bottom of the ocean with the Titanic.

He’s not a plumber, but his uncle is, and he worked for him for a while.

“I can get you a good price,” Jeremy says, accepting the drink Cynthia just poured for him and sitting on the loveseat next to the sofa.

She scowls at him and puts her hands on her hips. “Did you only offer to come over because you’re trying to scrounge up business for your huckster uncle?”

He lifts his empty hand, palm outward. “What do you take me for, Cynth? I make an offer to help your friend, be a stand-up guy, and you accuse me of being shady?”

“Tell the truth, Jeremy. Do you still work for him?”

He wobbles his hand in the air. “Sometimes, when I need to make an extra buck.”

She snatches the drink back from him. “You just lost your drink, Trumpet Boy.”

“What gives?” he asks. I may not be a great judge of such things, but he looks genuinely hurt.

My gaze finds Ryan. I think Jeremy is telling the truth, but I want Ryan’s take. “What do you think?”

“I’m no expert,” he says, “but he’s right. You probably need to get them replaced. You might need some rewiring too.”

I slump back on the couch, trying to do the mental calculations. The inn is expensive. There are no mortgage payments, but the tax is exorbitant. Still, I have some money saved up from It’s Christmas Again, and that money can go toward updating and rebranding the inn. “Do you think we can find someone to do it before Monday?”

Jeremy Jacobs gives Cynthia an accusatory look. “I can get my uncle to do the pipes tomorrow,” he says, “because you’re friends .”

He says that last word acidly, and she rolls her eyes and hands back his drink.

“A thank-you wouldn’t be out of line,” he says, raising one eyebrow.

“Thank you, oh lord and master.” She mimes bowing. “You know, you’re letting your social media stardom go to your head.”

“If it’s only gonna last fifteen minutes, I might as well make the most of it. I got DMed five phone numbers last night.”

Cynthia’s nostrils flare. “Only five? I got seven numbers at the bar.”

There’s something strange going on with them, but I don’t really care at the moment. I’ll care later, because I love Cynthia, but right now, I just want to know if my B&B is going to survive this inspector’s visit. “And the electrical?”

Ryan squeezes my shoulder, and some of the tension eases out of me. “I’ll make some calls. I know enough to recognize if they’re screwing us.”

Us. The word makes me smile, even though I know it’s not a promise.

“Thank you, Ryan.”

Jeremy makes a sound of affront, so I turn to him and say, “And thank you, lord and master.”

Cynthia laughs so hard, she bends over with it. I catch Jeremy watching her before he shakes his head and says, “And that’s my cue.” He downs the rest of his drink and rises, setting the cup on the coffee table, thoughtfully choosing to use one of the coasters. Then he nods at me. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Thank you,” I say again, more emphatically. “I really appreciate your time, Jeremy.”

“I’m glad someone does.” His turns to Cynthia. “You need to report for your shift?”

“Yeah, soon.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

She gives him a pointed look. “So you can sell me on your aunt’s Mary Kay?”

He snorts and shakes his head. “You sure love giving me shit, Cynth.”

“Someone needs to keep your head on straight.” But she relents and smiles at him. “Come on. Maybe we’ll see Weston, and you can serenade him again.”

“Don’t. Seriously, don’t,” I say. “A trumpet might be what got us here in the first place.”

“Another reason for me to help you,” Jeremy says with a nod. “I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault,” I say. “It’s Weston who lacks a sense of humor.”

I sense Ryan smiling at me. He certainly has a sense of humor.

Cynthia and Jeremy take their leave and walk out together, bickering under their breath.

“Sit with me a minute?” Ryan asks as the front door shuts behind them with a solid report.

“Gladly.” I sigh, leaning back on the sofa, and pat the cushion next to me. He studies it for a second. “Don’t worry,” I say, “no Santas are hiding under the cushion.”

“I’m going to take you at your word for that,” he says with a crooked smile, then sits down next to me—a few inches away, but plenty close enough for me to feel every slight movement he makes. And Ryan Reynolds is not a man who knows how to sit still. The motion of him so close to me makes my blood warm.

I turn to face him, taking in his features, which are becoming so familiar, and it hits me that this man knows so much about me, but I know barely anything about him.

“Who are you?” I ask. After the words come out, I laugh, because it sounds ridiculous. We’ve spent the past four days together, and I’m only now asking. “I mean, who are you really, Ryan?”

“I can’t tell you everything, but I’m not going to lie to you,” he says, his fingers gripping the piping at the bottom of the couch’s upholstery. “That doesn’t sound terribly promising.”

“You’re right,” he says, his smile returning, like he can’t bear to let it go.

“So what else can you tell me about yourself?”

He pauses, as if giving this request actual consideration. “I told you a bit about my brother,” he says at last. “He’s my twin, and he’s the most important person in my life. But I haven’t talked to him for a year.”

“What are you waiting for?” I ask, drawn in by him, by this story he’s teasing. His sadness is heavy enough that I feel it.

“I’ve let him down too many times. I want to be able to tell him that I’ve changed. I can’t…bring myself to talk to him before I can tell him that and mean it all the way. I’m close, but I’m not there yet. When I am, I think I’ll feel it.”

“And who were you before, Ryan?”

Emotion flickers through his eyes like a summer storm. “Someone who took more than he gave. My life was in a dark place for a long time, and I didn’t know how to make things right. Your grandmother’s the one who made me want to change. She was kind to me when I needed it.”

Dark place.

What does that even mean? I want him to give me the diameters of it so I can fully take his measure. So I can know who it is I’m dealing with, and how much trouble I’m in. Because I’m attached to him being here, with all of his chaos and his cooking and his kindness. I’m getting used to seeing his handsome face every day. I can feel him carving away at a part of my heart, making me want to care about him.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” I ask.

“Oh, God no.” He takes my hands and meets my gaze. “No. And I’ve never hit anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

I laugh again, half because I find it funny, and half because I’m scandalized. “And who decides that?”

“Me,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Do you trust me?”

“More than I probably should,” I admit. Because even though I know next to nothing about him, I do trust him. My grandmother trusted him, but that only provided the foundation for my trust. It’s his actions this past week that have built it.

“I don’t want it to be more than you should. I want to be worthy of it.”

There’s an intensity to his words, and I feel that warmth inside of me growing and reaching toward him. I maintain my grip on him, letting our clasped hands connect us like an electric cable.

“What else can you tell me?” I ask through parched lips. “I should warn you that I’d like to know everything.”

His mouth twitches with a near smile. “I’m from New York City, born and raised, I’m allergic to peanuts, I’ve never had a relationship longer than a month, and I’ve never believed in Santa Claus, but I thought the Grinch was real until I was six.”

My mouth drops open briefly before I can collect myself. “You told me your mother said your father was Santa Claus.”

He huffs. “Of course you remember that. Well…she lied about everything else. I knew she was lying about that too.”

“But how can you believe in the Grinch and not Santa Claus? What would he even steal if Santa hadn’t brought Christmas?”

His eyes seem to twinkle with the reflected lights from the Christmas tree when he says, “Everyone knows the grown-ups give the gifts. Before I met you, I never much cared about Christmas, but I like the way it lights you up from the inside. Like you’re full of Christmas lights. I could listen to you talk about Christmas for hours and not get bored.”

I find myself leaning toward him, wanting to suck up his words as if I’m dry stone. The only person who’s ever liked to listen to me monologue about Christmas is Jo. And no one has ever, ever told me I’m lit up from the inside. I’ve always just been Anabelle, the quiet girl. Or sometimes Anabelle, the girl who doesn’t know how to shut up when she should. “Tell me more, Ryan. I want more.”

He rubs his chin. “My brother and I are identical twins, and my mother left us when we were four. That’s something else I can tell you. We had a few nice foster parents, but their Christmas decorations were for their real kids. We were lucky if they remembered to pick up a couple of discount stockings and write our names on them with glitter glue.”

I feel that sadness blanket wrap around my shoulders again. It’s like this for me sometimes—other people’s emotions become my own. Especially when it’s someone I care about. It can be easier for me to feel their emotions than to know what’s going on within my own chest.

“I’m sorry,” I say, wrapping my hand around his wrist, feeling the way the muscle cords around it. I find myself tracing his tattoo and snatch my hand back. Struggling to compose myself, I add, “That must have been hard.”

“But I always had my brother.” He sounds even sadder now, probably because he doesn’t have him anymore. It must feel like a limb is missing. I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never had a brother or sister. My parents couldn’t have another child, much to their disappointment.

“You’ll have him again,” I insist. Wanting to move him away from his sadness, I continue, “And what did you do in New York?”

He brushes his mouth with his hand. “It’s part of that dark place, Anabelle. I don’t want you to judge me.”

Emotion catches in my throat. “I don’t want to judge you.”

“But you might anyway, right?”

I consider this seriously and then nod before I respond. I want to be honest with him. He’s not a murderer, so I wouldn’t throw him out. I know him too well to wonder if he’s a rapist or abuser. As for anything else…

I can forgive it, if it’s in the past, but will I be able to not judge him? I can’t say for sure.

I grew up believing in the rules—follow them and you’re good, break them and you’re bad. I’ve experienced enough of the world to know that metric is too simple for real life, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go of it entirely.

“I…I don’t know,” I finally say, feeling a different kind of burn in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

He brushes his fingers lightly over my cheekbone. “Don’t be sorry. I like you exactly the way you are. Now, what do you say we go get that stocking you hung up earlier and see how many dick pics Cynthia stuffed into it?”

Seven. One of them is wearing a Santa hat. I can’t hang it up behind my desk for obvious reasons, but it’s definitely a keeper.

I wander through the rest of the day in a daze, fulfilling a few orders and checking the other guests’ suggestions for the inn.

Santa’s House.

The Red and Green Inn.

The Christmas Inn.

Santa’s Helpers.

I text them to Jo, who writes back,

Jo-Ho-Ho: What about The Gingerbread House?

And my heart lights with a new glow, because that’s the one. I can see the sign already in my mind’s eye, welcoming people inside.

Ryan is the first person I tell. I admit that I’m worried about disappointing Ben, and he points out that Ben also submitted a very good suggestion about hiding some of my Santa Clauses around the inn and having a scavenger hunt for kids.

I go to bed with a heart that’s both heavy and full. The Gingerbread House feels like it’s coming together, but in order to make this place mine, I will have to transform it into something other than my grandmother’s.

Life is always like this, a war between the past and the present, which the present always seems to win. Usually, I hate that. But tonight…

I’m excited for what the future might bring.