The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RYAN

The pipe repairs are expensive , but after Jeremy’s uncle delivers his quote in the parlor, Jeremy takes me aside and says, “It’s the best he can do, man. As it is, I had to agree to wear a sandwich board next spring and stand out on the side of the road shouting to people about cleaning their pipes. I’m probably going to get run over.”

I smile at him and clap him on the back. “I’ll be sure to tell Cynthia that, brother.”

She’s been gone all day, having driven to a casting call in Washington, D.C. Some Revolutionary War movie she should be a perfect fit for. Jeremy didn’t get a call from them, which he’s complained about half a dozen times.

He scowls at me and says, “What do I care if Cynthia knows?”

He’s a better actor than I am, but he’s still not going to win any awards.

We head back into the parlor and rejoin Anabelle and his uncle, who are talking stiffly about the weather. I can tell she’s exhausted. She spent the whole time they were in the basement wandering around the parlor, picking out the Santas for the scavenger hunt. I nominated the one who’s smoking a pipe, but she told me it was inappropriate. I was tempted to point out she’s the one who’d bought it, but I did the rare thing and shut my mouth.

Maybe it’s time to give her the sweetgum ornament.

She could sell it to cover the cost of the repairs she’ll need to keep that dickweed away from the B&B and rebrand. Grace and Enoch are leaving tomorrow to spend a couple of days in Richmond, but he promised to let me ask him dozens of questions after they get back to the inn tonight. I’ll record our conversation, obviously, because my memory’s nothing like Anabelle’s.

Still. I should probably give her the ornament.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot, though I worry if I give it to her, she might tell me to screw off—nicely, of course—and then I won’t be able to help her with Hurricane Weston.

Besides, I don’t think she’d sell the damn thing.

I did a Google image search for some of her Santas. Don’t get any ideas—I didn’t do it because I’m interested in stealing them. I wanted to know what resources she has available, and a few of them are worth good money.

But if she won’t sell them, she probably won’t sell the ornament.

So I’m holding out for now, because I don’t trust Weston to play fair, and Anabelle’s not a dirty fighter. I am.

The Jacobses say their goodbyes, and after they leave, Anabelle turns to look at me.

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” she says in a bewildered tone.

“Do you have to do anything?” I scratch my head, feeling helpless and out of sorts.

“I have a few things to ship,” she says slowly.

“So let me help.”

I expect her to say no—I brace myself for it—but she nods several times. “Yes, please.”

There’s a grin on my face as I follow her upstairs to her room. It’s only when I walk inside that I realize I’ve made a dangerous offer. This is her space, with her bed . It smells like her and everything, from the little tree decorated in the corner to the worktable in the center of the space and small collection of her Franken-Santas sitting on top of the dresser, speaks of Anabelle.

“I’ve got to stand here for a minute just to soak it in,” I tell her. “If I immerse myself too quickly, I may drown in the holiday spirit.”

She gives me a bemused look. “We wouldn’t want that. I would prefer not to explain myself to the authorities. Something tells me they won’t believe me if I say the cause of death was Christmas.”

I’m glad she’s able to joke. I know all of this has settled heavily on her shoulders.

It’s only when Anabelle shuts the door behind me that I hear a yowl and remember her cat.

“Uh…is he going to be okay with me being in here?” I ask, staying put.

“He’ll need to learn to live with it,” she says stubbornly, giving Saint Nick a hard look as he comes slinking out from the other side of the bed. Then she heads over to the worktable and grabs a plastic snack bag from one of the drawers before handing it to me.

I open it and am blasted with a meat smell.

I pop one of the little snacks into my mouth, and Anabelle gasps. “Spit it out.”

She says it so emphatically that I do it without thinking, watching in horror as the glob of half-chewed jerky or whatever falls to the floor. “Shit, I’m sorry. What’s wrong?”

“It was for the cat,” she says, laughing now, gripping her stomach. “It’s a cat treat. I should’ve said—”

She starts laughing harder as Saint Nick darts forward and eats the half-chewed cat treat. A wave of nausea blasts through me.

“Oh God,” I say. “I need—”

Still laughing, she pulls a candy cane from a different desk drawer.

“Nope. Not going to eat it before I get verbal confirmation that it is a candy cane meant for human consumption and not a squeaky cat toy. There’s only so much humiliation one man can take.”

Laughing harder, she snorts, then her eyes widen. “I…snorted.”

“I’ve been known to do that to a woman.”

Something shifts in her gaze, turning hot and aware , and her laughter dries up. I’m again very conscious that we’re alone together in her space, aside from the cat, who’s currently chewing on my first-ever cat treat.

I clear my throat. “Is it a real candy cane?”

She snaps it into two, handing me the straight end, our fingers touching. “We’ll test it together.”

I’ll be damned if it’s not the sexiest thing a woman’s ever said to me. Her gaze is holding mine, and I have to wonder—to hope—whether she feels it too. Then I watch, mesmerized, as she unwraps the candy and sucks on it.

Either the universe is suddenly being kind to me, or very cruel. Because all I can do is watch her, like one of those dipshits on a hypnotism show.

“Aren’t you going to try your half?” she asks.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what yours is like?”

She smiles at me. “That wasn’t our bargain.”

“You play dirty,” I say, then unwrap my half and bite on the mint.

“Of course you bite your candy canes. You’re too impatient to suck.” Her tone is teasing, but damn, I don’t think she realizes how she’s affecting me with all this talk of sucking and biting in her bedroom.

The cat finishes the meaty treat and yowls for another. Anabelle nods encouragingly at the bag of doom. “Saint Nick loves those. Give him a few. Maybe he’ll want to be friends.”

I pop the rest of the candy cane in my mouth—earning myself an eye roll—and get down on my haunches and hold out a treat for him.

He stalks forward cautiously, sniffs the treat, and gobbles it. I stay down and try to pet him.

He stiffens at the first touch of my hand but then allows it.

I glance up at Anabelle, beaming. “It’s a Christmas miracle. He doesn’t want to murder me anymore!”

She’s still sucking on the peppermint, but as she watches me, her eyes warm, and suddenly bites down on the candy cane and chews.

“Hey, that’s not so bad,” she says.

Anabelle and I get her orders packaged up, and the cat who seemed to think I was the spawn of Satan a few days ago likes me so much now he humped my leg. Twice. Anabelle told me it’s probably a dominance thing, which wasn’t great for my ego. No one wants to think they’re owned by a twenty-pound cat.

The electrician I found shows up a few hours later. Unfortunately, he delivers unpleasant news. Some rewiring is needed for safety, but it can’t be done today. Anabelle makes an appointment with him, though, and at least we’ll be able to tell the inspector the upgrades are in the works.

So I tell her to take a rest while I hold down the fort for Hot Chocolate Happy Hour. Again. I already know Enoch and Grace won’t be back in time, and Lauryn and Ben are going on some candlelit tour, so I’m expecting a light crowd of no one.

I grab a drink, feeling the stress of the day in my neck, even though I was able to get in an early workout before breakfast, and settle back on the couch.

I text Javier, whom I haven’t heard from in a while.

Any snow, man?

A few inches.

I bolt upright before his next text comes through.

On the ground, man.

[Photo of snow]

Got you good, didn’t I?

My heart thumping in my ears, I write back:

You’re a jackass.

Glad you noticed.

He’s down for the count. Retired. I heard from a friend he just bought a property in the Caribbean. We’re keeping an eye, though.

I don’t forget the services of a friend.

Relief rolls over me. In the back of my mind, I’ve been worried Roark might still have some bite. I’ve also been worried about him.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. I don’t like my old boss. He’s a piece of shit who’s used me and my brother since we were kids. He’s a bad man who’s taken his fortune from other people and paid the people he employs peanuts. But I used to look up to him and think of him as a father—the only parent I ever had. So a part of me wants him to sit down for the count, because I don’t want Javier or anyone else to hurt him.

I’m glad.

I’m going into business for myself, Ryan.

I could use a guy with your talents, not gonna lie, but I’m not gonna ask.

He’s not talking about my ability in the kitchen. He’s referring to the only real talent I have—for picking locks and cracking safes.

I’ve only heard back from two of the dozens of places I’ve applied to so far—the colonial job, which was a big fat no, for previously discussed reasons, and a gig I’m interviewing for tomorrow. But it doesn’t matter. Being here, with these people, I’ve started to feel like I can be a person of value. I also know my relationship with Jake will never improve unless I’m out of that life. So the answer to Javier’s implied question can only be no.

Thanks, man. I wish you nothing but the best.

I sit back, alternating between the high of remembering Anabelle eating that candy cane and the low of Javier hinting he’d like to hire me. Part of me still thinks breaking things will be the only thing I’m ever good at.

I’ve been sipping my whiskey for long enough to get a low, pleasant buzz when a young, out-of-shape guy wearing a fuzzy blue coat comes in from the front room. He has curly black hair, a five o’clock shadow that probably sets in ten minutes after he shaves, and big, dark brown eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. Is this some other sort of inspector who didn’t bother to knock? A spy sent by Weston?

I sit up so abruptly I drop the whiskey.

“Oh fu—” I try to correct myself midcourse, but I can’t bring myself to say fudge , so I settle for not finishing the thought. It amuses me to realize I’ve done exactly what Anabelle did earlier this week, only the whiskey wound up on the floor instead of on my shirt. I grab an old-looking dish towel displayed on the credenza—Santa, baking cookies—to mop up the mess, but the stranger gasps.

“No! Drop that towel!” the guy says, waving his hands and taking several steps toward me. He’s a good four inches shorter than me, thick but not muscular, but I get the feeling that if I don’t do exactly what he says, he’s going to come at me.

I’m not a person to shy away from a fight—even a fight I don’t understand—but I told Anabelle I’d hold down the fort, and I have a feeling violence wasn’t what she had in mind. So I drop the towel.

The guy in the coat stops short and takes a good look at me, his gaze lingering on my arms. His eyes go wide with alarm, and he pivots as if he’s going to walk right back out of the room, the building, and maybe the whole town.

“Wait,” I call out.

He turns and lifts his damn hands, as if I’m a cop who just asked him to put them over his head. “I’m sorry, man,” he says, stumbling over his own words. “But that’s a vintage Christmas tea towel. Anabelle found it at a tag sale, but it’s worth at least three hundred bucks. You shouldn’t be mopping up spills with it.”

I’m tempted to ask him what I should be doing with a tea towel if not mopping up spills, especially a vintage tea towel that’s hanging on a credenza, but he seems scared—whether of me or the possibility that I might ignore him and mop up bottom-shelf cinnamon whiskey with the tea towel, I couldn’t say.

“Uh, thanks,” I tell him. “Are you here for Hot Chocolate Happy Hour?”

He glances around at the room, empty of other people except for the Santa Clauses arranged on the shelves, the windowsills and every conceivable surface in the room. Anabelle chose the Santas for the scavenger hunt and plans on dispersing some of the others, but none of them have been moved yet.

I’m about to make some crack about he knows where you’ve been sleeping , but this guy doesn’t seem put off by the Santas. He looks impressed. Hell, he looks awed—the way I felt the first time I visited Roark’s New York City apartment, full of treasures, when I was a kid so poor I couldn’t afford to use a gumball machine on my birthday.

This is the kind of guy we need more of at the inn.

His gaze returns to mine and he nods. “Yeah, I’m here to see Anabelle.”

“I don’t think she’s coming down,” I say, thinking about how pale she looked after the electrician left. “She’s not feeling well, so she asked me to help out by running happy hour.”

This guy looks like I just kicked him in the nuts.

He sure doesn’t give off an inspector vibe. There are no hard edges to him, nothing that speaks of authority.

Is he another of Anabelle’s admirers?

I can’t say I blame him, but despite having immediately recognized the worth of that tea towel, he seems new to this space. I can tell by the way he’s sizing it up.

Finally, his gaze rests back on me. “Are you Weston?”

He says it with the thread of contempt the man deserves, and surprised laughter gushes from me. “No. I’m just a guest here at the inn, but I was friendly with Grandma Edith. I’m Ryan.”

“Ryan Reynolds?”

I laugh harder, because I’ll be damned, word sure does get around. “Sure.” I put out my hand, and he shakes it, his palm slightly damp.

“Joseph.”

It’s a familiar name, but I can’t place it.

There’s still something nervous about the guy, like he might turn around and run at the slightest sound or motion.

“How do you know Anabelle?” I ask.

“She’s one of my best friends,” he says, which sends my eyebrows up. Not because I don’t believe men and women can be friends, but because he’s clearly never met the man she dated for over a year. Anabelle and I have also spent a lot of time together this week—more time than I’ve spent with most of the women I dated for multiple weeks—and she never once mentioned a Joseph.

I clear my throat. “Uh…you’re not some kind of stalker, are you?”

The look of offense on his face is real enough, but it doesn’t mean he’s innocent. I doubt anyone would be pleased at being called a stalker.

“Of course not.” He tugs at the hem of his fluffy coat. “Anabelle and I…we met online.”

“Like online dating?”

Jealousy throbs through me, making me crack my knuckles, but it doesn’t track. I can’t imagine her setting up an online dating profile, when she can barely bring herself to talk to strangers. Besides, she only broke up with Weston a few days ago, and his shitty behavior probably didn’t make her want to rush back into dating.

Another thing I should remember.

But Joseph shakes his head, thank God. “Chat rooms.” A sigh seeps out of him. “We’re both…” He gestures around the room. “…collectors. She outbid me on that towel. That’s how I know how much it’s worth.”

“Ah, so you have a weird room of Santa Clauses too.”

He gives me a withering look. “Anabelle’s collection has been written up in—”

“ House & Garden , she told me. Look. She’s not really in a good place right now. It’s been a hard day. Do you want me to let her know you’re here?”

He glances at the carpet-lined staircase, visible through the open doors, and then shakes his head. “Not if she’s having a bad day. I don’t want to give her more bad news.”

I cock my head, curious. “Like what?”

He heaves a gusty sigh, his gaze floating back to the credenza. “You wouldn’t care, man. Maybe she won’t either. But I don’t have anyone else.”

His words latch onto something inside of me. I understand what he’s feeling right now, and it’s terrible. It’s exactly the way I felt when I walked into this B&B less than a year ago. It makes me want to lend a helping hand. It doesn’t hurt that this guy’s apparently Anabelle’s friend, and helping him will be like helping her.

“Sit down.” I wave toward the couch. “I’m making you a drink.”

His gaze weighs whether I’m serious, and when he decides I am, he lowers onto the sofa—only to promptly withdraw a cloth handkerchief and clean up the whiskey on the floor.

A snort escapes me as I make my way to the credenza and pour him hot chocolate, adding some cinnamon whiskey. “You always cleaning up other people’s messes?”

“Yes,” he says sadly as he regards the soiled handkerchief and then neatly folds it and sets it on the table.

I add more whiskey to his drink, fill my cup, and join him back on the couch. Handing it to him, I say, “Seems like you could use this. I might not know much, but I know how to listen.”

He regards me doubtfully, so I shrug and tell him, “Last Christmas someone drew a dick on my face in permanent marker when I was passed-out drunk, and I didn’t know how to get it off. I came here for the holidays, and Anabelle’s grandmother had to wipe it off for me.”

He starts laughing, so I keep going. “One time I got pissed off at my brother, like I was seeing red, but I couldn’t bring myself to hit him. He’s my brother. My twin. So I punched a tree and nearly broke my hand. Got an infection from all of the splinters.”

He’s relaxing, his shoulders loosening, and he takes a sip of the hot chocolate. So I go for gold. “And another time, this woman broke up with me because—” I’m dumb , is what I was going to say, but I swallow the words. “Because she realized I didn’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’ I tell you what, buddy. I’ve never fucked that up again.”

He slides his glasses up the length of his nose. “You didn’t know the difference between your and you are ?”

Of course he latched onto that one…

“What can I say? Everyone tells you it’s important to pay attention in school, and apparently they had a point. It was never any good for me, though. I couldn’t sit still, and half of what they said went right over my head.”

He settles back into the couch cushions. Something tells me he never had trouble paying attention in school. There’s this air smart people have—an ownership of what they say and how they say it. Anabelle has it too. It’s one of the first things I noticed about her.

Now I seem to notice everything about her—the way her hair is ten times messier at the end of the day than the start of it, because the wind seems to like her as much as I do. The way she always taps her fingers against her thumb when she’s thinking. The curve her mouth makes when she wants to smile but isn’t sure she should. All the little pieces that add up to make her the person she is.

He narrows his eyes at me, and I sense the test before it comes. “You look like the kids who made my life miserable in school.”

“The only person whose life I made miserable in school was myself.”

He sighs and sets his drink down on the table, careful to use a coaster. Then he unzips the furry blue jacket, revealing a Christmas sweater that makes me smile—Santa riding on Rudolph.

“Nice sweater.”

He narrows his gaze, but I set my drink down and lift my hands up, palms out.

“Honest to God, I’m not making fun of you, my friend.” I motion to all of the Santa Clauses positioned around the room. “I was a foster kid, so Santa was never a big deal for me. But it’s cool that you and Anabelle are into it. My brother and I used to collect comic books and these pog things. Everybody should have a thing, you know?”

He takes another sip of his chocolate as if considering, then says, “I’m a reseller. Anabelle does some of that too, but she also makes her own stuff.”

“I know. I’ve seen the Franken-Santas.”

This seems to further relax him, and he lets out a long, slow sigh. “My boyfriend was cheating on me, and when I accused him of it and showed him evidence, he called me delusional and broke up with me. He said he’s going to throw out all of my stock if it’s not cleaned out by next Wednesday.”

If I can do one thing, it’s haul boxes. I can do that like a champ. “Where from and where to?”

He messes with his glasses, not looking at me. “Charlottesville.”

A couple of hours away, but it’s not a big deal if we have a few days.

“And where to?”

He sighs and dives both hands into his hair. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have anywhere to stay?”

He glances around. “I was hoping…”

Shit.

He doesn’t have anywhere to go or anyone to help him. Again, I feel a wrenching sensation in my chest. That’s how I felt last Christmas, and the kindness of a complete stranger changed my life. Sure, it took a while, but Grandma Edith planted the damn seeds, and this fall they sprouted.

Maybe it’s time for me to pay it forward. Especially since this guy is Anabelle’s friend.

I say, “Anabelle told me the inn’s full tonight.”

“Oh, sure.” He adjusts his glasses even though they seemed in no danger of falling. “I can find another place to stay.”

“I’m going to be here for a while. Kind of a…life sabbatical. You can bunk in my room until one of the others opens up. There are two double beds, but we’ll need to talk to Anabelle about what to do with your stuff. There’s a basement that seems to have space, and the water pipes just got fixed.”

“But you don’t even know me,” he objects, his eyes rounding. “And I don’t know you.”

“I’ve got some pepper spray you can keep under your pillow if it’ll make you feel better.”

“You’re not worried I—”

“Look,” I say, waving my mug to make the point. “Not to be a dick, but I’m not concerned you’ll try to kill me in the night. I may not be very smart, but I’m strong, and I have a hair-trigger startle reflex. You’re not going to successfully sneak up on me.”

He gulps from his drink and sets it down again. “No. I just… You know I’m gay, right? You’re not worried I’m going to try to come on to you?”

I snort. “You know I’m straight, and I know you’re gay. If you think I’m attractive, it would be a compliment, but I doubt you’d come on to someone you know isn’t interested. Just like I don’t go around hitting on hot married chicks.”

He laughs. “So you think you’re hot?”

“I know what I look like, and I wouldn’t hold it against you if you’ve noticed. Plenty of other people do.” Usually women who want a fling with the dumb musclehead for a few weeks.

He laughs again, smiling readily now, and I know I’ve set him at ease.

“Most straight guys don’t think that way.” He takes another sip of the drink before sitting back.

“Lucky for us, I’m not most guys. Let’s go talk to our girl.”

I’ve got no business calling her that, or thinking about her like that. She’s a woman I’ve known a week. But I don’t rush to correct myself.

Joseph throws back the rest of his drink as if he’s steeling himself for something.

“What’s wrong, Joseph?” I ask.

“If we’re going to be friends, you can call me Joe.” He looks into the bottom of his empty cup, as if hoping it will magically refill, before giving me his attention again. “Anabelle thinks I’m a woman.”

I really must be an idiot, because I’m only now realizing I’m sitting with her friend “Jo.”