The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

RYAN

On the way back from Charlottesville, Anabelle, Joe, and I blast “Mr. Grinch” and sing along. People at red lights stare at us, which only makes me sing louder.

None of us mention the inspection, or Grandma Edith, or Weston.

Our good mood lasts all the way back to Williamsburg and continues as we set up the tree near the front desk, where the person-sized nutcracker used to stand. It’s enormous for the space, and its branches will be dusting up against Anabelle’s back, but she claims she doesn’t care.

The unfriendly woman in Room C has already checked out online and left a shitty review complaining about the blinds, of all things, so we help Anabelle clean out the woman’s room and then get Joe settled inside with his five hundred boxes.

“Is it weird that I’m happy?” he asks once we stack the final box. His room looks like a warehouse, but he and Anabelle are planning on setting up an office in the other first-floor parlor, formerly a smoking room, where old dudes hung out and puffed on cigars while they talked about politics or whatever.

“No,” Anabelle says, braiding her thick hair at the base of her neck. It makes the slope of her neck look longer, and very kissable. Her temples are a little sweaty, and I wish I were one of those guys who carries around monographed handkerchiefs just so I could offer one to her. “You’re here with your friends, and you’re better off than you were with that man. He disrespected you, and lost your favorite shoes, and now you have a far superior boyfriend.”

I grin at them. “Hey, maybe that’s what I can do. I can offer people fake boyfriend services for the holidays.”

“Don’t you think people would catch on?” she asks, looking up at me, her eyes so big a man could easily get lost in them. “You’d become notorious in no time. It’s not a very practical business plan.”

“I’m not a very practical man.”

Her gaze captures me, and I feel the glow of being appreciated by her.

“Thank goodness,” she finally says, so sweetly that I feel like I just swallowed a handful of candy. My gaze drops to her mouth, taking in the curve of her lips, and I remember what they felt and tasted like the other night.

Like hot chocolate and heaven.

“Hey, can we pose for a Christmas photo before our inevitable breakup?” Joe asks, breaking the sudden tension.

“Only if you’ll send it to Aunt Bessie and all of your Charlottesville friends,” I tell him. “And I get to wear my Santa uniform. That’s nonnegotiable.”

“That’s a good idea,” Anabelle says, worrying at her lip. Turning to get a better look at Joe, she says, “We should also give Ryan some Santa Claus lessons before his first shift on Wednesday.”

“I’m going to get lessons from the experts?” I ask, amused.

“You probably shouldn’t get your expectations up,” Anabelle says. “I’m a terrible teacher.”

As if she could be terrible at anything.

“I don’t believe you, valedictorian.”

Laughter spurts out of her, escaping from her nose. “I wasn’t the valedictorian.”

“Don’t crush my dream.” I grin at her. “I liked thinking about you making a speech.”

Her mouth drops open. “I hate public speaking.”

“Still would have been cute. Besides, you love explaining things to people and showing them how to do things. You’re a natural teacher.”

“But I have no ability to make people listen.”

“Now you have Ryan.” Joe says, waggling his eyebrows at her. “He can stand behind you and look menacing. People will run around and buy you new shoes.”

“Damn straight, they will.” I wink at Anabelle and then leave the room, their laughter streaming up behind me.

Upstairs, I change into my Santa costume, putting on the beard that Anabelle says looks like something rats would use for nesting, and meet them down in the parlor.

Anabelle takes some photos of Joe and me in front of the tree, hamming it up for the camera, and then she moves an armchair in front of the fireplace and declares it’s time for my Santa lessons.

I’ve barely lowered into the chair when Joe says, “You’re too jacked. You need a pillow.”

He grabs one from the couch and throws it at me.

I stuff my new bowlful of jelly under my Santa jacket. “Better?”

“Say something as Santa,” Anabelle says, propping a hand on her hip. She’s still wearing the task-inappropriate red sweater dress, although there are a few smudges of dust across it from moving the boxes. Her hair has escaped the braid she didn’t bind with an elastic, and is now running wild across her neck.

I want to run my hands through it and feel the weight of it in my fingers again.

“Well?” she says expectantly.

“Have you been a good girl?” I ask, the words coming out a little more sultry than they should. A blush heats up her cheeks, and damn, she’s adorable. “Should you come sit on my knee?”

She looks away, her cheeks flaming. “You’re an abominable flirt, and it’s unspeakable for you to do it in front of your boyfriend. Now ask Joe what he wants for Christmas.”

I force myself to look away from her, my gaze landing on Joe, who mouths something that looks suspiciously like Santa cat .

I roll my eyes. “And what would you like for Christmas?”

They tell me my voice doesn’t sound very Santa-like, which isn’t a big surprise given the way I bombed the Colonial Williamsburg interview. I try again, dropping my voice an octave. Too menacing . And again, trying to sound singsongy, like someone talking to a baby. Just no , although both of them laugh.

Anabelle’s brow furrows, but she’s not a woman who gives up easily. “Maybe we should try going back to the beginning,” she says.

“Should I climb up the chimney?” I ask.

Joe coughs a laugh. “I’d like to see that.”

“So would I,” Anabelle says. “But no, I was thinking we should practice ho ho ho .”

She looks dead serious, so I rest a hand on my pillow stomach and give it my best. “ Ho ho ho .”

Joe makes a doubtful face at Anabelle. “It’s not supposed to sound sexy.”

“You’re right,” she says thoughtfully, observing me in a way that makes me feel hot behind the ears. “Try not to make it sound sexy, Ryan.”

Hearing her say sexy and my name in the same sentence is hardly putting me in a chaste mindset, but I clear my throat and try again. “Ho ho ho.”

They exchange another look, and Anabelle says, “You know, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. All of the mothers will want to come see him.”

“Hot Santa,” Joe agrees with a nod.

“Hot Santa,” she repeats, taking me in. I’m suddenly uncomfortably turned on…and very thankful for the pillow gut.

“Can I go change now?”

Anabelle meets my gaze, and more blood pulses down south. “If you must.”

We spend the rest of Sunday night pretending to relax before the inspection. I suggest a Christmas movie, which turns into us airing A Christmas Story in the main parlor. Anabelle has the guests’ phone numbers from check-in, so I text them an invitation to join us. Two of them actually come. They settle onto the love seat that sits catty-corner to the main sofa, where Joe, Anabelle, and I lounge together, me in the middle. About half an hour in, I notice that Anabelle’s eyes are getting heavy.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s fast asleep and leaning on my shoulder. I’m tempted to sit like that for the rest of the movie, because it feels damn good, but I can tell how exhausted she is. Each time the dad in the movie shouts, her eyes flutter open and she glances at the screen for half a second before they close again.

So I gather her up in my arms and bring her up the stairs, making a point of avoiding eye contact with Joe.

When I get to Anabelle’s room, I open the door and then push it inward with my foot. Saint Nick scurries out before following me back inside, his whiskers twitching as I lower Anabelle onto her bed.

I pull back the covers and sheets, smiling at the pattern of candy canes, and then adjust her so she’s covered. I turn to leave, but her hand wraps around my wrist.

“I’m scared, Ryan.”

My heart lodges in my throat, and I get down on my knees beside the bed. Her eyes are glassy, and her hair is loose around her face. She’s so impossibly beautiful.

“You’ve got nothing to be scared of.” I let myself smooth the hair out of her face. “You heard Joe. I’m going to be there. That guy tries to mess with you, and I’m going to make him buy you some new boots. Nice ones.”

Her smile is barely there, but at least it’s a smile. “He better watch out.”

“Damn straight,” I agree. “Because you have friends. Lots of friends. And we’re not going to let anyone hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

She smiles at me, then brushes her hand over my stubbled cheek. “I believe you. Goodnight, Ryan.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I say.

Then I lean in and press my lips to her forehead before I go.