The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

RYAN

I figured I’d see Anabelle at Hot Chocolate Happy Hour. She didn’t ask me to take over today, and I happen to know that both Cynthia and Jeremy have a shift that ends right at five.

But when I come down at four fifty-five with the stuffed cat in the bag, the only person who’s in the Santa parlor is Joe in his fuzzy blue coat, with a duffel bag about ten times bigger than mine.

He tracks my gaze and blushes. “I don’t mean to presume, but are you still okay with me crashing on the other bed? I had coffee with Anabelle earlier. She said she was okay with it if you’re okay with it, and Comfort Zone is really awful, and—”

I lift a hand. “Buddy, I’m the one who suggested it. It’s really no problem. But where’s our girl?”

There I go again, running my mouth.

Joe glances out the open parlor door, then says in an undertone, “She’s with her parents.”

A sinking feeling fills my gut. I wish I’d known. She probably wouldn’t have wanted to bring me with her, after what happened last night, and also because her father probably wants to murder me. Still. I don’t like the thought of her going there alone after what that man said about her. Sure, he may have brought her to a Christmas tree lighting a quarter of a century ago, but he obviously hasn’t done much to prove himself since. His own mother thought he was worthless, and even though my mother obviously decided Jake and I were worthless when we were basically toddlers, she was a drug addict whose judgment is much more questionable than Grandma Edith’s.

“Yeah, I don’t like it either,” Joe says. “They’re obviously trying to shove her and Weston back together.”

I groan. “You think they invited him over too?”

“Probably. I’ll bet it’s some parent trap setup.”

“Fuck,” I fume. “Do you think we should go over there?”

“You want to crash dinner with her parents?”

He doesn’t sound like he’d object, so I nod. “Yeah, I really do. I don’t like the thought of that guy being anywhere near her.”

“I don’t know where they live, or I’d tell you,” he says. “You know, she tried to break up with Weston before. Six months ago. But somehow it ended with them going on this vacation together. To, like, Disney World. She hates crowds. He’s got an uncanny way of convincing her to do things she doesn’t want to do.”

I don’t like that one bit.

“What do we do?” I ask.

“She’s not going to take him back this time, man. He threatened her.” He peers at me through his big glasses and then smiles knowingly. “You’ve got a thing for Anabelle, huh?”

“No,” I say quickly, but his gaze has already tracked to the stuffed cat I’m holding in the bag.

Grinning at me, he plucks it out and waves it in front of my face. “The Santa Cat is out of the bag.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Looking very amused with himself, he sticks the cat back in the bag. “I’m not going to out you, man. But maybe you should out yourself, if you’ll excuse the choice of words. I bet it’ll cheer her up to know there’s another option on the table.”

“I’m not an option,” I say, setting the bag down next to the credenza and pouring myself a stiff drink. Screw hot chocolate.

I can feel Joe staring at me, so I turn to look at him.

“Why aren’t you an option?” He grins, obviously coming into himself. It hits me like a fist to the gut that Anabelle’s friend trusts me. I’ve done barely anything to earn that trust, which makes me feel like an asshole even though I haven’t acted like one. “Because you’re in love with me?” he adds blithely.

“You got it in one.”

“Seriously. Why aren’t you an option?”

“She’s not my type.”

It’s true that Anabelle is unlike the women I’ve dated, but it’s a bald-faced lie to say she’s not my type. She’s lovely in a way I can’t quite wrap my head around—a joining of soft curves and hard edges that’s almost painfully perfect, from her upright posture to her soft, long hair and those big brown eyes. I’ve been thinking of her nearly constantly since I got here, and in truth, I’d also thought of her a few times over the last year, as I struggled to come back here. To do what I’d pledged to do.

Then she was a picture, an ideal.

Now, she’s a woman whose wall adjoins with mine. Whom I can hear fussing about her room and occasionally singing softly to herself, her voice sweet and low.

Joe’s smile drops, and he develops a look of contempt as he pours himself some hot chocolate, adding Baileys.

“Is this because she’s on the spectrum?” he asks.

“What spectrum?”

The look on his face is comical, and he nearly drops his mug.

“Careful,” I warn, “you might have no choice but to use the tea towel for its intended purpose.”

He wags his head at me and sets the mug down on a coaster. “You knew her grandmother. I guess I thought you knew.”

“What spectrum?” I repeat.

“Autism,” he says. “I don’t feel bad telling you because it’s not a secret.”

“I don’t really know what that means,” I admit. I’ve heard the word, of course. Everyone’s heard the word, but I’d never paid it much attention. Then again, that’s a common thread of my life—Ryan, not paying attention to anything.

I make a mental note to sit down and do some research.

“Her brain works differently,” he says with a shrug. “It’s why she shuts down sometimes and can’t handle crowds. She can be sensitive to sound and touch.”

I think this through and decide I’ve found another reason to dislike Weston and her father. My rage is a red fist, pounding on the inside of my brain.

“Weston knew all of this and he still proposed to her in front of a crowd, outside?”

Joe lifts his eyebrows. “I know, right?”

“And now he’s coming for her B&B? We need to vanquish the asshole.”

He laughs and takes his hot chocolate over to the couch. “And you say you don’t have a thing for her.”

I don’t respond to that, because I have no real response. Instead, I join him on the couch. “Have you rented a truck?”

He glances at me. “Not yet. You’re really going to help me move my stuff?”

“Sure,” I say, “but an inspector’s coming by the inn Monday morning, and I have somewhere to be on Wednesday afternoon. You’ll want to be done by then, anyway, though.”

“Tomorrow would be good. The sooner, the better. I don’t like the thought of leaving my treasures around Craig when he’s in a mood.” He cocks his head. “What have you got going on this Wednesday? I thought you were here on some extended vacation.”

I grin at him. I know he’ll appreciate this. “I don’t like sitting around much. I have a trial run for a temporary Santa Claus gig.”

He gives me an up-and-down appraisal. “You’re teasing me again, aren’t you? There’s no way someone’s hiring you to play Santa.”

“I don’t need yet another person insulting my acting skills.”

He still thinks I’m messing with him. I can see it in his face as he purses his lips and says, “Where’s the trial run?”

“Are you going to try to steal my job, partner?”

He laughs and shrugs out of his fuzzy blue coat. “No, man. I don’t want sticky children pulling my hair and shouting in my ear to get them presents. No, thanks.”

“You love Christmas, but you don’t like children.” I shake my head, smiling at him. “Doesn’t compute.”

“I didn’t say I dislike children. I said I don’t want them tugging on my hair or shouting in my ear. Sugar is a powerful drug. Do you have a suit?”

“Yeah. I picked one up this afternoon. Will you help me practice? To be honest, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, and you and Anabelle are Christmas experts.”

Grinning, he pushes his glasses up. “Uh, yeah. I definitely want to see you as Santa Claus.”

“Hold that thought.” I get onto my feet, leaving the shopping bag with the cat and the games.

Joe glances at his big duffel bag pointedly, and I laugh as I hoist it onto my shoulder. “Yes, Joe, I’d be thrilled to carry this upstairs for you.”

“You know…” He beams at me. “You’re already Santa Claus to me.”

I whistle as I walk up the stairs, feeling pretty good, although I’d feel a lot better if Anabelle came back from her parents’ place. Maybe Cynthia knows where it is? I could scope it out, see if I spot Weston through the window, and if he’s there…

If he’s there, there’s no way I’m not getting her out.

When I step into my bedroom, I slap the bag down on the empty bed and then get changed into my Santa suit, which is much too loose until I stuff a pillow into it. The wig and beard look ridiculous, but maybe Joe will be able to fix it or tell me where to get a more convincing getup.

I’m almost done when I hear footsteps on the stairs. I about trip over my own feet to get to the door, but when I open it I only see Lauryn and her son Ben, the guests in Room F.

“Mom,” he says urgently, his little hand fisting around the fabric of her coat. “Is Santa staying at our hotel?”

Lauryn gives me a sheepish look, but I’m on cloud nine. I’ve said literally nothing, and I’ve already fooled this kid, who should be able to recognize me perfectly well behind the barely there beard. My job with Ada is in the bag.

Even so, I get down on my haunches so I’m level with him and say, “No, man. I’m not the Santa, but I’m one of his helpers. If you and your mom would like to join us, I’m going to be hanging out downstairs for a while with some cool games.”

“Ryan?” he asks in a serious voice, then lifts my beard and gasps. “It’s really you!”

I glance up at his exhausted-looking mom. This woman needs an alcoholic beverage. “There will be some drinks for the adults,” I add. “We’d love it if you’d join us.”

“Are you with Mrs. Claus?” Ben asks.

My grin stretches wider. “Nah, I’m with one of my jolly elves, and he loves children.”