The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Monday, December 8, 17 days until Christmas

Intimacy dreams about Ryan: 2

Near panic attacks: 4

“I’m unwell,” I say to Cynthia. We’re in the kitchen, attending to the dishes, while Ryan, Jeremy, and Joe hang out in the breakfast room. Cynthia suggested it was rather sexist for the men to relax while we attended to the work, but I insisted. Not because I believe women should do the dishes; rather, I need the normalcy of our daily routine to ground me. Even if everything is already topsy-turvy since Monday is Cynthia’s usual day off.

“You should eat. Jeremy’s already had three cinnamon rolls, and he’s not even a guest here.” She doesn’t sound annoyed about it, though.

“It was nice of him to come,” I say tentatively.

“Yeah, he has his moments,” she concedes, handing me a plate, which I position in the dishwasher.

We continue in silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. Mine are mostly bleak. The inspector will come. He’ll find a colony of rats living in the walls, and then the building will need to be knocked down. I’ll have to stand by and watch, consumed by the knowledge that I’ve failed my grandmother.

Or maybe he’ll tell us that there’s black mold, or—

Cynthia wraps her damp hands around my shoulders, pulling me out of my spiral. “Stop. Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop.”

“How did you know?” I ask in shock.

“The look on your face.”

“Can you also tell by the look on my face that I don’t like it when my shirt’s damp?” I say it with a smile, though, because I love Cynthia, and she laughs and pulls them away.

“Now, step back from the dishwasher. I’m going to finish up here. Make sure you think happy thoughts. Why don’t you go pull Ryan into an empty room and make out with him? That would make anyone feel better.”

“It would make me feel more anxious, which is something I definitely don’t need right now.”

“Then go take a shot of whiskey from the parlor.”

“I don’t think the inspector will have an agreeable impression of me if I answer the door smelling of whiskey first thing in the morning.”

She plants a hand on her curvy hip. “Anabelle Whitman. There’s a reason they invented mouthwash.”

I’m fairly certain the reason wasn’t so people could go around drinking whiskey whenever they feel like it. But I leave the kitchen and drift toward the dining room. I stop a few steps form the doorway. Ryan’s sitting with Joe and Jeremy, who’s eating what must be his fourth cinnamon roll over a napkin that is inadequate for the job. Taking it all in, I decide I can’t be in there right now. Most of the time, I’m not bothered by the sound of people eating, but I’m too keyed up to handle it.

Ryan catches sight of me. I expect him to motion me in. If he does, I’ll have to join them. It would be incredibly rude not to, given they’re all here to support me. But instead he gets to his feet, says something to the other guys, and then leaves the room.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he reaches me. “You look a little pale. Maybe you should take a shot of whiskey before the inspector gets here.”

“Goodness. You and Cynthia give the same bad advice.”

He grins. “Maybe that means it’s actually good advice.”

“Or you’ll both lead me into depravity.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and he swallows, my eyes tracking his Adam’s apple as it bobs in his throat.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says with a smirk.

He’s teasing me. Or at least I think he’s teasing. He made it very clear the other day that he didn’t think we should kiss again, and if kissing is off the table, then I’m guessing depravity certainly is.

The bell over the front door rings, and I gasp. But the next instant, Ryan’s hand weaves around mine, and the feeling of his strength joining with mine bolsters my ability to walk to the door with him and open it.

The inspector is an unpleasant-looking man with a fierce expression, a full beard, and a work cap. He’s carrying a clipboard and a red pen. Goodness, does it have to be red?

He looks like a man who dislikes children and small animals.

“Hello, and welcome to The Gingerbread House,” I say cheerfully.

He gives me an unimpressed look. “Says The Crooked Quill over the door.”

“It does, yes. We haven’t had a chance to change the sign yet.”

He grunts. “You’ll have to update it on the paperwork.”

Oh, dear. This is already falling apart like a poorly constructed gingerbread house.

“We’re in the process of doing that,” Ryan lies fluidly. I hear footsteps approaching us from behind, followed by a friendly feeling presence behind us. The cavalry has arrived.

The inspector, Sam, glances at them. “Are these your guests, ma’am?”

“No,” I say proudly. “They’re my friends, and they’re all involved in the B my breath is coming in fast puffs. I’m embarrassed by how afraid I am of this stranger with the beard and the clipboard. But Ryan has not released my hand. Every now and then, he smooths his thumb across my knuckles as if to reassure me that I’m not alone. Warmth spirals through me from those touches.

I’m tempted to climb into his arms and ask him to carry me, but I’m also determined to push through and do this normal thing. If I’m going to be a dual business owner, for both It’s Christmas Again and the inn, I will have to learn to face my discomfort in situations like this.

Sam the Inspector spends an especially long time in the basement, and my earlier worries about mold reassert themselves. I keep a large dehumidifier down here, but what if it stopped working? What if I’ve unintentionally been poisoning my guests?

The inspector doesn’t say a single word, but after what feels like an eternity in the basement, which is somehow both damp and dusty, he heads back up the stairs and brings us into the parlor.

“You’ll need to move those,” he says, pointing to a few of my Santas perched on the window ledges. I’ll have to let go of Ryan to do it, something I haven’t done since Sam arrived—even walking down the stairs, we went together. I glance at him, and he squeezes my hand and releases me.

After I move the Santas, Ryan immediately reclaims my hand, thank goodness. Sam checks the windows—which creak but open—and then peers into the chimney.

“Looking for Santa Claus?” Jeremy quips, earning a shove from Cynthia.

Then, with great ceremony, Sam pronounces he has finished his inspection.

“What happens now?” I ask nervously. Ryan steps a little closer, his side pressing against me, offering his body’s warmth and hard strength. I feel a surge of gratitude and affection. He was Joe’s protector yesterday, and today he’s mine.

“Yeah,” he says, “what happens now?”

“Now, I go write my report,” says Sam.

I lick my dry lips, worry thrumming inside of me. “Is there—

“Nothing poses an immediate threat,” he says.

Relief washes through me, so sweet and soothing I almost laugh. “Oh, that’s great. So great. Would you like a cup of hot chocolate before you go?”

He gives me that I hate puppies look but then clears his throat. “Do you have marshmallows?”

I release Ryan’s hand and then bear the indignity of being stared at by everyone as I prepare a to-go hot chocolate for the inspector, doubling up on the mini marshmallows.

He takes it from me and immediately makes his way toward the front door.

Ryan watches him, his jaw flexing, and then calls, “You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t reply.

We trail Sam to the front of the inn, and Jeremy gives his back the middle finger as he walks out the door and heads down the front steps. I give Jeremy an admonishing look, but I don’t really mind. It’s a profound relief that the man is gone. For now.

I shut the door and turn to look at my friends. My gaze settles on Ryan, possibly because I can still feel the impression of his hand in mine.

“Well, that went okay, didn’t it?” I ask.

“I don’t like it,” Ryan says, his voice soft but his words extremely unwelcome.

“Oh.” Something inside of me sags.

Ryan shifts on his feet. “We know they have bad intentions, so why did he just walk out of here without doing anything?”

“It may be a scathing report,” Joe puts in. “Some people are better at being mean in writing.”

“I could use a drink,” Jeremy says. “Anyone else want a drink?”

Cynthia gives him a pointed look. “We have an afternoon shift. You should have had one when Anabelle took her shot of whiskey this morning.”

“I didn’t do that!” I protest, my voice coming out louder than intended.

Ryan smiles, but it’s a blip of an expression, there and then gone in an instant.

Jeremy groans dramatically. “Oh, come on. That was brutal.”

“I’ll grab a drink with you tonight,” Ryan tells him.

“I can’t tonight.” He grimaces. “I promised my uncle I’d babysit. His little girls are a nightmare. They always try to braid my hair. Anyone want to come?”

He delivers this part hopefully, but no one volunteers.

“We can get that drink tomorrow night?” Ryan suggests with a half grin.

“Sure, I’m gonna need it.”

“Anyone else want to come?” Ryan asks. His looks directly at me, and I feel another gush of affection for him. But not enough that I want to spend tomorrow evening in a loud, probably dirty bar. I’ll probably still feel depleted from the inspector’s visit, and Joe and I have a lot of work to do on our office.

“No,” I say. “I’ll probably stay in.”

“So you can worry about getting a strongly worded email from Sam the Shithead?” he asks in a teasing tone.

“That’ll definitely be part of the evening’s plans,” I admit, then gesture to Joe. “But we also have business to discuss. I’m guessing it will take several nights.”

Like how to change the B&B’s name legally and what kind of role Joe wants to have at the inn while we partner up our Christmas businesses.

“All work and no play will put Anabelle on the naughty list,” Cynthia singsongs.

“I didn’t hear you say you’re going to the bar,” I point out. “Or babysitting tonight.”

She shrugs. “Because babysitting is a thankless task, especially if the kids are related to Jeremy, and I have plans tomorrow night.”

Jeremy flinches. “Oh? What are you doing?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says with a sassy grin.

I can tell that he would, indeed, like to know. They’re playing a game with each other, that’s for certain, and I can’t make out what it means.

My gaze lands on Ryan.

I’m playing a game, too, I think, and I’m in over my head.