The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

RYAN

Last night, Anabelle and I talked to Enoch for about an hour. I’m glad she was with us, because he gave what seemed to be solid advice about changing the branding for The Gingerbread House, and about eighty percent of it flew right over my head. I did volunteer to take over the scavenger hunt for the kids, though. I’m excited about that.

I didn’t have any money when I was a kid, so I couldn’t get Jake anything for Christmas. He’d always make me a drawing or one of his illustrated stories. So one year I figured out a way to pull my weight—I made him a scavenger hunt for things to find around our neighborhood. We nearly got into some deep shit, because one of the things on my list involved scaling the fence of a guy who kept a Doberman, but it was still fun.

I mean, obviously, I will not be sending these children off to play with Dobermans, but maybe I can work in a few fun surprises.

After I put in my daily workout, I head back to the inn and find a few people still hanging out in the breakfast room. Anabelle’s sitting with Cynthia and Joe. She’s wearing a red sweater dress, her hair down around her shoulders. She always wears it down, every day. It’s like a gift she gives the world, because her hair is beautiful—thick and wavy and probably twenty shades of brown.

I can practically hear Jake saying, You’ve got it bad, brother.

I do.

But I’m going to keep my distance for her sake—and for mine. A lot of people have turned their backs on me, but I couldn’t stand it if she did.

“There he is,” Cynthia says with a grin.

“Can you already tell she’s going to ask you for a favor?” Joe asks.

They must have met just this morning, but he’s already giving her shit. That’s the power of Cynthia, I guess. She’s got one of those warm personalities that makes you feel you know her after all of five minutes. I’ve always gotten along well with people who are like that. In some ways, I am a person like that. But Anabelle’s different. She’s like a complicated lock. You’ve got to work hard to open it, and you don’t stand a chance at succeeding unless you take the time to understand the way it’s put together. But you know you’re gonna find something good on the other side when you get it open.

“And what favor is that?” I ask, sitting down with them.

Anabelle gives me a sidelong look and immediately gets up. Shit. I figured we’d worked things out yesterday.

“Do I smell?” I ask before she can take more than a step away.

“You smell good,” she says, turning. Her lips part, and something catches in my chest. “You took a shower after your workout. You always do.”

I’m taken aback that she notices. I haven’t even told her about going to the gym in the mornings.

“Christmas witch,” I say.

She gives me a half-hearted smile. “I’m getting you some food. You must be hungry.”

And again, there’s that warm feeling spreading through my chest. I watch her go, and when I turn to give my attention to Cynthia and Joe, they’re both eyeing me with smug expressions.

I point at Joe. “You snore.”

“I do,” he agrees. “Just so you know, I told Cynthia about the Santa cat.”

Meaning he told her that I have a thing for Anabelle. “What the fu—”

I cut myself off as I notice Ben is still present, working on his Christmas comic while he finishes his eggs and toast.

Returning my glare to Joe, I say, “What the fiddlesticks?”

Cynthia snorts. “You’ve been spending much too much time around him and Anabelle.”

“Don’t you have a day off?” I ask her.

“Tomorrow. But I’ll still be around, obviously. Jeremy too. We’re all going to follow this joker around while he does his inspection.”

“A wall of intimidation. I like it.”

“But you’re not changing the subject. Joe didn’t need to tell me you have a thing for Anabelle. It’s probably obvious to the Martians studying us from space.”

“If there were Martians, they’d have better things to do,” I say with a sigh, tapping my fingers against the table. “Don’t worry about me and Anabelle. We’ve settled things between us.”

“You haven’t,” Cynthia says, glancing back at the doorway. “You made her think she’s a bad kisser or something.”

“You kissed her?” Joe repeats, much too loudly.

“Keep it down,” I hiss. Turning to Cynthia, I say, “She said that to you? When?”

“Yesterday morning.” Her tone is pissy now, like she’s none too pleased with me.

“She knows that’s not true. We talked about it last night.”

“But did you talk about it in a guy way, or did you actually talk about it?”

“I don’t know what that means,” I admit. “But I do know that the three of us are done talking about it. Now what favor do you want?”

She darts another glance at the doorway, then says, “I want you to help me settle a bet. Can you find out whether Jeremy’s been messaging back any of those girls who have texted him about the video? He’s been acting too big for his britches, and I want to set him down a peg.”

Something tells me that’s not the real reason for her request, but I won’t call her on it—even if she’s made me feel like a dick with her questions about Anabelle.

Did I really make her question her kissing ability?

It’s unthinkable, because that kiss meant more to me than all the other kisses in my life combined. I’ll have to figure out a way to clear that shit up, quick, without it leading into another loss of willpower. I wouldn’t put it past myself to try to rationalize sleeping with her to prove how much I want her.

Cynthia’s still watching me, trying to pretend she doesn’t care about how I answer her question even though she obviously cares a lot.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll ask him if he wants to grab a drink after we get back from Charlottesville. See what I can get for you.”

“Thanks, Ryan. I told Anabelle I’d be on call today, so if anyone needs anything at the inn, I’ve got it covered.” She says this as if I have some stake in the B people usually mistrust me. Hell, my own brother doesn’t believe in me anymore, and I’ve burned so many bridges I might as well be wearing explosive shoes. But Grandma Edith, the woman whose ornament I was sent to steal, trusted me above almost anyone.

The thought makes me feel like a chocolate lava cake exploded in my chest—and also like I want to drop my new friends off at a gas station and speed out of town, because no one should trust me like that.

I’m forcibly ejected from my thoughts when a new song comes on—“All I Want for Christmas.” I groan, but I catch a spark lighting Anabelle’s eye as she peers back at Joe. Suddenly, she’s singing along with Mariah, Joe joining in, and even though this song normally makes me want to gouge my eyes out, I feel her excitement. Just like last night, when she pulled that stuffed cat out of the bag. She shuffled on her feet like she wanted to jump for joy, and over a little thing like that. It does something to me. It makes me want to gift wrap the whole world and set it at her feet.

So I give her another sidelong glance and join in, belting out the lyrics as I drive toward Charlottesville.

Her smile is more blinding than the sun.

We continue the sing-along until we get into town, Joe telling me the directions because “Google Maps always gets it wrong.” I pull up in front of an apartment building that looks like any other—generic white, with windows with black shutters that probably don’t shut.

“Home sweet home?” I ask, glancing at Joe in the rearview mirror as I park the U-Haul.

“It was for a while,” he says, his tone dark.

“You have a better home now,” Anabelle insists.

He has a key and his ex is supposed to be at work, so it should be quick—easy in, easy out. But when we get out of the car to approach the building, I can tell Joe’s not feeling easy about any of it.

I’ve been there before. I may never have fallen in deep with a woman in the past, but it still doesn’t feel great when someone grinds your nuts under their heel.

“Think about all the dank shit you hated about him,” I say, patting him on the back as he leads the way to one of the entrances. There’s one for every four units—two upstairs, two down.

Laughter gusts out of him, and Anabelle shoots me an approving glance as she falls in on the other side. She’s still wearing that adorable red sweater dress. It’s probably not the best choice for moving day, but she looks so damn sweet it’s going to rot my teeth.

“Ryan’s right,” she says. “Craig’s a liar and a cheat, and you’re so much better off without him.”

Joe heaves a sigh, his gaze on the unit, and says, “Thanks, guys. That helps. But let’s get started. I don’t want to be here when Craig gets back from his shift.

Except when we get to the apartment door, Joe’s key doesn’t work. He glances at the apartment number, as if a sudden inability to read is a more likely explanation than that the asshole changed the lock and decided not to say anything. Half a second later, an anemic-looking red-headed guy opens the door. There’s a shit-eating smirk on his face, and judging from Joe’s expression of horror, this is his ex. His look of horror becomes a hundred times worse when a balding guy with dark brown eyes and a green sweater steps in next to Craig and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Dean?” Joe squeaks. “Is that my sweater?”

Goddamn, what a vicious setup. This Craig guy obviously invited his new boyfriend over so he could watch Joe carry his things out to the truck—like some extended and reversed walk of shame.

Joe’s a nice, solid guy. No way does he deserve this.

My buddy looks like he’d like to change his name and relocate to another state where no one knows him; Anabelle looks like she’s about to explode. And while I’d really, really like to see Anabelle put this guy in his place, I do what I do best—I act before I think.

I put my arm around Joe, who stiffens as if I’d just punched him in the kidneys.

“Oh, how embarrassing,” I say. “Joe never would have brought me along if he knew you were home. He was worried about hurting your feelings, weren’t you, honey? But I guess that’s not a problem since you’ve both moved on.”