The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

ANABELLE

Santa Claus boyfriends: 1

I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open.

“He did good, didn’t he?” Joe asks. “She’ll have to hire him. It isn’t his fault kids have poor boundary issues and sticky fingers.” We’re sitting in the car, waiting with the heater on full blast, and Joe has been nervously monologuing for at least two minutes.

“He did fantastic,” I say, my heart full of pride. He did. He was glorious, just like he was at Joe’s old apartment. Just like he was last night, with his head buried between my legs. Just as he is always . I lift my fingers to my lip, remembering how he feels there too. “It was sweet of him to get us chairs.”

“It felt like sitting on a pool floaty, but I’d rather sit on a pool floaty than against a shelf of screaming dolls. Why were they screaming? In what world would a child want their doll to scream? I didn’t want a screaming doll when I was a kid.”

“No, neither did I,” I say, paying only half attention to him because my mind is fuzzy with fatigue. “My mother got me a crying baby doll, and I tried to hide it in the back of a drawer. She said I lacked a maternal instinct.”

He snorts a laugh.

Movement at the front of the store catches my eye, and I straighten when I see Ryan coming toward us. He looks…upset.

Oh no, oh no, oh no. Did she not give him the job? I don’t want him to feel lesser for having been rejected from two positions he’s more than capable of doing. I know I’d feel downtrodden.

“He doesn’t look happy,” I say, pulling on the side of my lip nervously. “What should we do?”

Joe releases a gusty breath. “I just ran and left you and Ryan to a stampede of children, so I don’t think I’m a good person to ask for advice.”

Ryan comes around to the driver’s side of the car and raps gently on the window with his knuckles. He’s removed the Santa beard, wig, and hat, and is holding a plastic shopping bag. I roll the window down.

“Why don’t you get in the back, sweetheart? It was a lot in there, and I can tell you’re tired. I’ll drive.”

Affection for him swells inside of me. He understands my needs and doesn’t make me feel lesser for having them.

I get out of the car, but as I pass him, I lift up to brush a kiss on his lips. He makes a surprised sound but then presses a hand to my back to pull me closer. My heart is thumping fast when he lets me go. “It’s okay if you didn’t get this job,” I say. “We’ll find something else for you.”

He gives me a smile that feels hollow. “I got the job.”

“Oh, then…”

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

He opens the door for me, and when I climb into the back, he pulls the remaining pillow out from under his shirt. “Here you go.”

“No, thank you,” I say. “I have a thing about having someone’s sweaty chest pillow next to my head. Even yours.”

He grins at me, a more Ryan grin, and says, “At least I got an ‘even yours.’”

“I’ll take it,” Joe offers from the front. “I have a crick in my elbow. It got hit by the falling baby doll.”

Ryan’s grin stretches wider, and he shuts the door for me before getting into the driver’s seat and handing Joe the pillow.

“What happened?” I ask, fighting impatience.

He glances around, looking in all of the mirrors. His vigilance reminds me of the way I get when I’m feeling unsafe. “Weston was having someone follow us. He paid that kid twenty bucks to pull off my beard.”

My mouth drops open. “He didn’t .”

“It’s okay,” he says, darting a reassuring look at me. “I’m going to go have a little talk with him.”

“No, Ryan. That’s not a good idea. It won’t make him back off. He—”

“I don’t care if it’s a good idea,” he says firmly, his jaw flexing. “I’m not going to let him have you followed. That’s bullshit. Have you heard from that inspector?”

“No, not yet.”

“Email him in the morning. Something’s off. It doesn’t make sense that he’d look at everything and not comment on the wiring. I think we need to start locking the front door. We can give all the guests a key.” He pauses. “And the windows. That dude took a real big interest in the windows. We need new locks for them.”

“Okay.” My heart is thumping faster now. I don’t like thinking about the inspector, but I’m more afraid for Ryan. I don’t want him to go talk to Weston. Weston could hurt him or get him arrested or—

“ Please don’t go talk to Weston,” I say, my voice coming out tinny and strange. “ Please. ”

I can see him working his jaw again in the mirror.

“Don’t you think that’s what he wants?” I ask. “He must know we’ve been…spending time together, and he wants to make you angry. He’s hoping you’ll react physically so he can have you arrested.”

“I don’t care,” he says again. “I can’t let—”

“Go with Jeremy. Or Joe. Please don’t go alone.”

“I’ll go with you,” Joe says. “It’s the least I can do after running from the stampede.”

Ryan is quiet for a moment, and then he reaches into the back seat and takes my hand. “Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s get you home.”

We’re quiet for the rest of the drive, but Ryan turns on the 24–7 Christmas station, saying he needs to live, eat, and breathe the role of Santa to prepare for the weekend crush at the store.

I barely manage a smile, and Joe’s quiet too, all of us consumed by worry.

When we get home, Joe heads upstairs, saying he has a lot of reflection to do as to why he let fear overpower him. I’m guessing he’s going up to play Animal Crossing , but I need quiet time too, so I don’t call him on it.

Ryan and I walk into the parlor in silent agreement. The tree’s brightly colored lights soothe something inside of me. Everything looks as it should. Nothing here has been broken, though my sense of safety has been shaken like a snow globe.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” he says.

I look up at him, holding his eyes—the darker flecks rising to prominence today. “Then you know exactly how I feel.”

He stops walking in front of my grandmother’s photo, and I study it with him, feeling a swell of grief, of missing her in a visceral way. I want to peer into her bright, happy eyes and hug her. I want to tell her so many things. I’ll only ever see her in my memories or photos and recorded videos, though. It seems deeply unfair, but at least I have some scattered pieces of her left. I have this building too, which always felt like ours.

Ryan heaves a weary sigh. “I feel like I did her dirty. She wanted you to get out of a bad relationship.”

“And I did.” I take his hand.

“That doesn’t mean I get to have you myself.”

“Why not?” I say. “My grandmother must have trusted you implicitly if she gave you that ornament. She must have seen the good man you are. And I wouldn’t be so sure that it didn’t occur to her that you and I might get along. She wanted me to find someone who cares about me, someone who sees me as I am, and you do.”

He gathers me up in his arms, his hand finding my hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

A sad laugh escapes me. “Neither do I, Ryan.”

“I’m desperate for you.”

The moment feels surreal. No one’s ever been desperate for me before. I peer up into his warm, beautiful eyes. “Show me.”

He kisses me then—a deep, needy kiss—and I return it in kind, wanting to sink into the way he makes me feel without worrying where it will lead or whether I’m chasing something that will break my heart.

Breaking the kiss, he pulls back and searches my face. “You’re exhausted, and I’m not helping. You probably need some time alone. I’ll bring dinner up for you.”

I lift a hand to trace his lips, fascinated by his face. By my new ability to touch it whenever I’d like—which is so often it will probably shock and possibly repel him. “Will you eat with me?”

“If you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

He needs to change out of his Santa things, so he walks upstairs with me and kisses me once more before I enter my room.

True to his word, he makes us spaghetti. He also prepares a special dinner for Saint Nick, which smells atrocious but is devoured in such large and eager gulps it must be delicious to him. I’m so enraptured by Ryan that I do something truly brave.

After we’re done eating, I get down on my knees and unfasten the button on his jeans.

His eyes are full of warmth as he watches me. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” I say, my pulse hammering. There’s a voice in my head telling me that I don’t know what to do and it won’t be pleasurable for him, but it’s overpowered by my need to show him how much he’s starting to mean to me. “I want to make you feel good. Help me make you feel good.”

He runs his hands over my hair. “You already do that, sweetheart.”

I unzip his jeans and take him out. Then, after looking up at him to reassure myself I’m doing it right, I wrap my mouth around him and suck.

If it’s not very good for him, I certainly can’t tell, because he moans and buries his hand in my hair and tells me that I’m definitely not on the naughty list, because I’m a very good girl. Honestly, I feel like it.

The next morning, I wake up early, feeling refreshed. I get up, leaving Ryan on my bed with Saint Nick. My heart feels like it’s made of sweet chocolate when I look at them. Ryan seems so innocent when he’s asleep, his hair in soft curls and his lips slightly parted, his legs curled beneath him. I’m humming as I walk down the steps, and I allow myself to skip into the kitchen.

It’s only when I see Cynthia, her hair restored to its usual brown—albeit a couple of shades lighter—and tucked prettily into her costume’s bonnet, that I remember I never texted her last night.

Remorse floods me. I forgot to text Cynthia about her trip to Richmond. How could I have forgotten? A good friend would certainly have texted, perhaps several times.

“Oh dear,” I say as she turns toward me. “Your hair looks fantastic, but I forgot to check in with you. I feel like a horrible friend.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “I didn’t text you either. Did Ryan get the job?”

“He did,” I say, “and there are some other developments I should tell you about, but I’m not going to be able to focus on anything else until you tell me what happened with Jeremy.”

A satisfied smile stretches across her face. “Good, because I was going to talk about him anyway.” She lifts her hands to one of her curls and tugs on it as she says, “He took me out to dinner, and he told me that I drive him crazy.”

“I hope that’s not the only thing he said.”

“The good kind of crazy,” she says smugly. “He said I’m all he can think about lately, and he showed me his Instagram inbox. There are, no shit, like five hundred messages in there from super-hot women, and he didn’t answer any of them.”

“I didn’t think he had,” I say, feeling a swell of fondness for Jeremy. “And what happened next?”

Her eyes glimmer, and she glances furtively behind me before continuing. “We stayed at a hotel halfway between Richmond and Williamsburg.”

“You did?” I gasp.

“We did. And I figured the least I could do after he helped me with my hair and bought me dinner was to suck his dick.”

“You did that too?” I ask, my mouth agape.

“You also sucked Jeremy’s dick?” She’s obviously teasing me, and I find myself laughing even as heat floods my face.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, and I’m delighted.” Laughing, she pulls me into a hug. “I hope Ryan’s enough of a gentleman to reciprocate.”

“Oh, he already did that,” I say.

Can a person’s cheeks actually catch on fire?

“Oh my God, Anabelle. I can’t believe it. Look at us.” She squeezes me harder before releasing me. “Jeremy wants to try this with me. We’re together. I still have two dead-end jobs, no offense, but I’m so happy. I didn’t know I could be this happy. And it’s all because of you and Ryan. I’m glad you’re giving him a chance.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I protest, surprised.

“You did,” she says. “You were a good friend. You are a good friend.”

I open my mouth to object, because I have failed to meet my personal list of what a friend should do: I forget to call or text, and most of the time I need to remind myself to ask people about their interests. But then I stop myself; the truth is, I’m starting to feel like a good friend. Maybe all this time it wasn’t me that was the problem. Maybe I was trying to form relationships with the wrong people.