The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ANABELLE

Sunday, December 7, 18 days until Christmas

Inappropriate crushes: 1

Ryan is magnificent.

There’s no other word for it.

I have plenty of other words for Craig: scallywag. Putz. Pillock. Ninnyhammer. Unprincipled heel.

But now he’s gaping at Joe, his attempted cruelty yanked out from under him like a thin rug, and it’s a glorious moment.

Even Joe, who’s clearly cut to the core by the sight of his ex-boyfriend of two years canoodling with his “just friends” co-worker, clearly feels the glow of it. A humiliation turned into a victory. Because Ryan is so clearly superior to both Craig and Dean that there can be no arguing as to who came out ahead in this breakup.

“And who, exactly, are you?” Craig finally asks, a sour expression on his face as he regards Ryan—taking in all of his Ryan-ness. He’s wearing a black henley shirt, having left his coat in the car, and it hugs his muscles, providing a tantalizing peek of the ink at his wrist.

His gaze shifts to Joe before settling back on Ryan, who grins. “I’m Ryan. He hasn’t told you about me yet?” He gives Joe a fond look. “You know, we were just friends up until the other day, when you threw him out. He was looking for some consolation, and I figured my moment had finally arrived. Thanks, man.”

“But I’ve never heard of you before,” Craig says, still standing in the doorway. Dean looks confused.

“Because I had feelings for him,” Joe rebuts tightly. “I was fighting them, but then I figured, why keep fighting?” He nods at me. “And this is Anabelle.”

“Anabelle, huh? I still don’t think she exists. Did you hire these people to come help you?” Craig scoffs. “We both know you don’t have any real friends.”

Ryan spears him with a look. “And did you hire this dude to steal my boyfriend’s sweater?”

“No,” Dean says, coughing. “It was…uh…a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it was a mistake,” Ryan says, shifting his glare to Craig. “And were you aware it’s illegal to change the locks on someone who’s on the lease? You’re lucky we didn’t show up with one of the boys in blue. I hope for your sake you didn’t commit any other theft. My main man here keeps everything inventoried. If even one item is missing, you’ll be answering for it.”

Craig backs up abruptly, tripping over a Crocs shoe and nearly taking a tumble.

Joe steps forward and grabs the shoe. “That’s mine.”

Ryan pushes his way into the apartment, and I follow them inside. It opens into the living room, with an open kitchen on one side and a hallway across from the door, presumably leading to the two bedrooms and bathroom Joe has told me about. A six-foot Christmas tree presides over the living room, covered in garland, lights, and ornaments. The sight of it makes me gasp. Joe doesn’t have any of his truly expensive ornaments displayed, but there are a few vintage glass ornaments I remember him buying at auction.

Craig and Dean are standing on the opposite side of the living room, facing off with us as if we’re an insurgence, and they don’t know whether to try to crush us or hoist the white flag.

“Where’s the other Croc, Craig?” Ryan asks, a threat underlying his words. His gaze shifts to Dean. “And he’ll take his sweater back too.”

Dean immediately removes it. He’s wearing an undershirt, thank goodness.

Craig clears his throat. “I don’t know where the other Croc is.”

“Then I’d suggest you find it, friend ,” Ryan warns.

I’m torn between a sense of wonder and unease. Ryan is legitimately menacing, but he’s doing it in preservation of Joe, who absolutely cannot defend himself and agonized for a week after accidentally killing a spider in his bathroom. It reminds me of the way Ryan stood up for me that first day, when Weston tried to follow me into my bedroom.

A defender.

A knight.

Not a gallant knight, though—more like one dressed in leather and spewing swear words.

I feel a swell of cautious affection for him.

I feel a much less cautious swell of attraction. It was impossible not to notice Ryan before I kissed him, but now I can’t stop. Every moment brings me more of him—his muscles, the way his face lights up when he laughs, and his magnificent eyebrows, which are three or four shades darker than his caramel-brown hair. His kindness. His magnetism —a quality that I’ll never have even if I study it academically for four lifetimes.

Joe leads us to the second bedroom, from which he ran his business, and Ryan urges him to inventory his belongings before we carry them down. He reports that all is present and accounted for, and we start bringing boxes down to the truck—Ryan taking two or three, Joe and I one each. The first time we go down, we see Craig searching around the sink; the next, in the far-right corner of the apartment under the Christmas tree, while Dean buzzes through the bathroom. The third time, they’re gone.

Joe looks around the apartment like a bloodhound, and once he’s verified that they’re really gone, he wraps his arms around Ryan and hugs him. My heart feels like it’s on the verge of bursting, seeing these two men who mean so much to me hugging. “Thank you. Oh, my God. I almost burst out crying. Jesus, that would have been embarrassing. He’s such an asshole , but you humiliated him. You…oh God, no one’s ever done anything like that for me before. Ever.”

Ryan pats him on the back. “I can still hit him for you, if you want. He did you dirty.” He gestures to the tree. “But I say we take the tree and call it done.”

Wonder threads through me, like tinsel twining with my soul. “You want to be the Grinch?”

He grins at me, his whole face taking part in the expression. “It was my favorite children’s book. And that guy messed with Joe. He deserves to lose Christmas privileges for the year.” He nods at Joe. “Besides. I’m guessing it’s yours, isn’t it?”

Joe nods, looking shell-shocked but not displeased.

Ryan turns his grin on me again. “It’ll fit in the truck.”

He’s right. They only had the larger size available at U-Haul, so they upgraded us without upping the charge.

“I think we could use a second tree at the inn,” he adds. “This one could go behind the reception desk. That way you could always be within sight of a tree, Anabelle.”

In response, I take out my phone, plug in a quick search, and seconds later, “Mr. Grinch” is playing over my speaker. Ryan’s laugh is full-bodied, and I find myself noticing him in a way I shouldn’t. Wanting to lean into him and rub up against him the way Saint Nick does now.

I try telling myself I’m not interested in Ryan and that the kiss was a blip, a mistake, an uncharacteristic moment of putting impulse before logic.

I just broke up with my boyfriend, and if Weston and I were too different, than Ryan and I certainly are. He’s also only here temporarily—and my heart has nothing temporary about it. It has such a hard time letting people go that I stayed with Weston six months longer than I should have.

All of that is true, but also…

Ryan is a person you can’t help but notice. He gives out more light and heat than other people. He is more like the star on top of a tree than I will ever be.

Joe must be feeling it too, because he grins. “Let’s do it.”

Ryan reaches for the six-foot Christmas tree as if he’s going to grab it by the stand and rip the lights free of their outlet, but I give an aghast sigh, echoed by Joe.

“Those ornaments need to be wrapped and boxed!” I object.

He gives me an indulgent smile. “Oh, all right, but it takes away from the dramatic gesture.”

We get the ornaments boxed and loaded, then Ryan lifts the tree, still strung with lights and garland, by himself.

“Don’t forget the stockings that were hung by the chimney with care,” he says with a wicked grin. He’s teasing us, which is nothing new—a person who has a special interest in Christmas is used to being mocked—but he’s doing it as if we’re all in on the joke.

“Should I take Craig’s stocking too?” Joe asks, adjusting his glasses.

“Dean was wearing your sweater,” I say.

“Agreed,” Ryan says, still holding the tree. He’s doing it one-handed, showing off, but I’m not annoyed by it. In fact, I’d like to take a photo of him like this—holding a tree one-handed—and frame it. I could hang it next to my grandmother’s photo in the parlor.

“Wait!” I say, then get out my phone and snap the photo while he beams at me.

We’re heading back to the car, Joe carrying the stockings in plain sight while Ryan strongarms the tree, when Craig and Dean return, a shopping bag slung over Craig’s arm.

His eyes widen at the sight of the pilfered stockings and the tree. “Wha—”

“We got you a new pair of Crocs,” Dean says, grabbing the bag from him and shoving it at Joe. “Your size and everything.”

Ryan gives them a dark look before glancing at Joe. “Are you okay with that resolution, Joe? Or were you attached to the old pair?”

Joe takes a second to consider, then nods. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But…my aunt Bessie made us those stockings,” Craig says, his tone plaintive.

I’m hoping Joe doesn’t back down. I’ve realized it feels damn good not to back down, and I want that for him.

“She did,” Joe says with a smile. “And it was so sweet of her. You’ll say merry Christmas to her for me, won’t you? Oh, never mind. Ryan and I will send her a card.”

With that, we strut right past them with the tree and the stockings and finish loading up the truck.