The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

RYAN

“Santa, why do you keep looking over there? I don’t want a baby doll. I want a Rainbow High doll. But it has to be the one with the colorful hair, and not the little one, because her eyelashes are painted on.”

“Uh, noted,” I tell the seven-year-old girl named Frances. Her middle name is Margaret, but she would have preferred something like Rose or Hyacinth. She probably would have told me her parents’ social security numbers too if she knew them. “And I’m looking at her .” I point to Anabelle, who has her head bent over a book, her hair falling around it in sexy waves. “She’s my girlfriend. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Her mouth falls open. “You’re cheating on Mrs. Claus?”

“Five minutes,” Ada announces over the loudspeaker.

Thank Christ. I’ve got a headache, and I need a shot of whiskey and at least an hour alone with Anabelle.

“Rainbow High doll with rainbow hair,” I say, loudly enough for her parents to hear, hopefully. Then I add, “Aisle 5,” for good measure. Doesn’t hurt to be helpful.

Frances gets up but stomps her foot. “What about Mrs. Claus?”

I’m tempted to say something like what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her , but I have a job to do, so I draw in a deep breath and say, “She is Mrs. Claus. She’s in disguise.” Then I lift my finger to my lips, and she makes the lip-zipping motion in response.

It’s cute enough to lift my mood, and I listen to one other kid’s capitalist wishes before Ada puts an end to the evening.

I get up, give ’em one last ho ho ho , and go to Anabelle. “You didn’t have to come, sweetheart. I thought you were going shopping with Cynthia.”

It’s a bit unusual for her and Cynthia to go clothes shopping together—Anabelle usually buys her clothes online, and almost always from the same stores because she knows how the fabric feels—but I figured maybe she was going Christmas shopping and didn’t want to say so. I’ve already bought her a couple of Christmas gifts, although I second-guess myself at least five times a day.

“I wanted to come,” she says, kissing the side of my face.

“Ooooooh,” says a young boy who hasn’t cleared out of the store yet. “That lady’s kissing Santa Claus.”

Ada actually smiles at me on my way out. “Good job, kid. You don’t have to put any dollars in the bucket today.”

We have an agreement that I need to put a dollar in her donation bucket every time I swear—which apparently includes saying hell and damn around kids. It’s helped me clean up my act. The money goes to a fund for foster kids, though, and I’m going to make a donation on purpose as my Christmas present to Ada.

My head still aches, but I feel good as I open the car door for Anabelle and then walk around and climb in. Maybe the ache in my head is from the stress of carrying around the feeling that the other shoe is about to drop…

Every day it doesn’t drop, I know it’s getting lower and lower.

“Are you okay?” she asks, giving me a worried look.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Would you like to see what I got with Cynthia?” she asks.

“Sure.”

She pulls a slinky red silk teddy out of the bag.

“Jesus Christ.” I tug it from her, my eyes on her. “You bought this, Anabelle?”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” I say, my throat feeling raw and my dick suddenly rock-hard. “Yeah, I like it. Does this mean…?”

She looks me dead in the eye and says, “I want you to make love to me, Ryan.”

Damn.

“Are you trying to get me to speed?” I ask.

She smiles at me, then returns the teddy to the bag, which she sets primly in her lap, and somehow that only makes me more eager for her.

I lean in and kiss her hard, and she opens her mouth and invites me in without hesitation.

I’d told myself I wouldn’t do this until we have a conversation about my past, but I’ve put that off. And put it off some more. And put it off further.

Because if she sends me packing, it’s going to break me.

But maybe we don’t need to have that conversation first. Maybe—

We’re still in the toy store parking lot, and someone honks their horn at us. I pull away from Anabelle and wave at the scandalized-looking woman behind the wheel of a minivan, hoping like hell she doesn’t give Ada a call later.

I glance at Anabelle, grinning, suddenly feeling on top of the world. “Let’s go home.”

It’s not until I’m almost there, going fast but not fast enough to get pulled over for speeding, that I realize what I said.

Home.

I’ve been here less than a month, but it feels like home. Anabelle feels like home. I love her, and I love her bed and breakfast, and I love all of her friends. I even love her cat. And although the Santas and I didn’t begin on such a great note, I’ve gotten to like those crazy bastards too. Hiding them in new places for the scavenger hunt is one of my favorite things to do, because Anabelle and Joe always do a test run to see if they can find them. They’re funny as hell about it—super competitive—and I enjoy watching them.

I’m thinking about all of this, my heart so full it hurts, as I park the car. Grinning at Anabelle, I grab the bag with the teddy and stuff it into the pocket of my Santa coat. It’s only as we get out and walk toward the inn that I spot the police cruiser parked outside, where no cars are supposed to go.

She shoots a look at me, her eyes full of horror. “Joe.”

I grab her hand, and we run toward the entrance, but when we get to the steps leading up to the front door, she shakes her head so hard I’m worried she’ll hurt herself. “I can’t go in there, Ryan. I’m frozen. I can’t go in there.”

I can feel it in her grip. I’m dying to go inside to see what the fuck is going on, but my priority is Anabelle. I wrap her up in my arms and hold her, whispering to her promises I don’t know if I can keep— it’s going to be okay , I’m going to make it be okay —and one promise I will keep, no matter what— I won’t let anyone hurt you .

She lets me guide her to sitting on the cold step, and it’s then that Joe hurries out of the B&B, a police officer trailing behind him. His eyes are red, which isn’t very promising, but at least he’s alive and uninjured. This is about something else.

“You’re okay,” she says. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Joe assures her.

I help her up and then nod toward the door. “Let’s get her inside. It’s too cold out here.”

“Not yet.” Joe bites his bottom lip.

“Cynthia?” Anabelle croaks.

I wrap my arm around her, holding her up. I’m not too worried about Cynthia. If something had happened to Cynthia, the police wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t have had any reason to come back to the inn after dropping Anabelle off at Curio.

“I’m so sorry, Anabelle,” Joe says, tears leaking down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

“What happened?” I ask, looking from him to the officer, who’s rocking on his heels. He’s a big guy with a crew cut and the beginnings of a beer gut. Maybe thirty-five, maybe fifty.

“There’s been a robbery,” he says.

And there it is: the other shoe dropping.

Anabelle and I exchange a knowing look. The ornament must be gone.

Only…

Joe doesn’t even know about the ornament, so why would he have called the police?

“I don’t know how this happened,” Joe says, tears streaming down his face. “I was here the whole time, and we changed the locks. Ryan even put those locks on the windows himself.”

“No one broke in,” the officer says, squaring his jaw. His gaze tracks from Joe to me. He smirks when he notices my Santa suit.

“The guests all have keys,” I say, my mind working at the puzzle. “Maybe it was one of them, or someone lost one. What did they take?” I ask, holding Anabelle close. Her body is stiff, but I feel small tremors working through her.

“They took the ornaments and all of the Santas,” Joe says, crying harder now. “Do you think it was Craig retaliating? I don’t think it could have been because he’s been posting vague Instagram stories every thirty minutes, and they’re all from the stockroom at the grocery store, but I don’t know. I can’t think clearly. I can’t make sense of any of it.”

Anabelle is silent and pale, her eyes far away, and my protectiveness takes over. I don’t want her to see this. I think maybe she can’t see this right now, so I turn to the officer. “She’s in shock. I’m going to bring her upstairs.”

“I’ll need to talk to her if she’s the owner,” he says.

“Of course. But she needs time to process this.”

He rolls on his feet again, and I decide he’s a douchebag. His next words hammer the impression home: “I don’t have a lot of time to spare, son. A collection of dolls and a few craft projects isn’t exactly a pressing problem in the scheme of things.”

“Her collection was written up in House & Garden magazine,” I snap. “It’s worth money. And someone clearly knew it. She also has an ornament that was on Antiques Roadshow . It’s worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. If that’s gone, it’s a big deal.”

He seems more interested by this, but he just nods. “Okay. Your little buddy here has filled me in. You come on down to talk to me, and I can interview her later.”

Now, I’m positive I don’t fucking like him. “My little buddy is an expert with antiques, so I’m sure he can tell you exactly what was stolen. He and Anabelle are in business together.”

“Insurance fraud is a felony,” he says, giving us hard looks.

“Insurance fraud? We haven’t been here for hours!”

“What about the little guy?” He nods at Joe. “You got those stolen Santas hidden in your room, buddy?”

Joe looks horrified. “Of…of course not. I’m the one who called you. And I told you about Craig.”

“We’ll look into it,” he says dismissively. I’m guessing Craig won’t get a single phone call. Not that I think he did it. I got Craig to buy Joe replacement Crocs just by frowning at him—I’m guessing he didn’t grow a pair of balls big enough to turn around and do this. He’s the kind of man who might enjoy being a petty prick, but he’s not very good at it.

No, this is the work of a master.

“I need to sit down,” Anabelle says in a tiny voice, and worry for her swallows the need to take action, which would likely involve doing or saying something stupid that would result in me being arrested.

I swear under my breath and then gather her up in my arms and carry her inside and straight up the stairs, not stopping or pausing or otherwise allowing her to see the parlor.

She’s crying softly now, and I want to hold her forever. I also want to murder whoever did this to her.

Let’s be real. I want to murder Weston . Because there’s no way he’s not behind this.

Saint Nick meows and hurries toward us as I tear off the blankets with one hand and then lower her into the bed and tuck her in. The cat curls up next to her, and I give him a pat, feeling like we’re on the same team.

I know I should head down right away, but my God, look at her. I run my hand over her hair. She’s still scarily silent, and I feel like a bottle rocket ready to blow, because I hate seeing her like this.

I hurry over to inspect her super secret hiding place in the closet, which is not super secret to me given how much time I spend in here. It does look like someone might have rummaged through the closet, but the ornament is still in its spot. I return to her and kiss her forehead. “The ornament’s still there. No one took it.”

I can tell it’s no comfort at all. The ornament might be worth more than the whole Santa collection, but she doesn’t love it the same way. It’s not important to her. Even the decorations stolen off the trees on the first floor are probably more important.

Anger lashes through my veins, making the blood hotter. Weston knows that, which is the only reason he took all of it. Sure, he was probably hoping his guy would find the sweetgum ornament, but he was content to ruin her Christmas. She didn’t give him what he wanted, when he wanted it, and now he wants to break her.

“I love you,” I say. “I love you, Anabelle. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

This wasn’t how I’d planned to tell her, but I need her to know. Before I turn to leave, she reaches for my hand. “I love you too,” she says, tears spilling down her face. “Please don’t do anything dangerous. Please. ”

“I won’t,” I say as I trace away her tears with my fingertips. “We just need to figure this out. It’s all going to be okay, sweetheart.”

But I don’t really believe it. That other shoe just dropped on my neck.

Sure enough, when I go back downstairs, Weston himself is in the front room, chatting with the shitty officer as if they’re the very best of buddies. Joe is sitting behind the desk, his chair shoved so far away from them it’s practically buried in the Christmas tree we “freed” from his old apartment. It has lights and garland still but no ornaments. He looks terrified, not that I blame him.

Weston turns and looks at me, a smug smile on his face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I say, feeling the rage pumping harder, faster.

“I saw the police cruiser. I was worried about Anabelle, obviously. We may not be together anymore, but I’m still concerned for her safety. And the safety of the guests, of course. This kind of thing can leave a stain on a hospitality business. People want to believe they’re safe.”

“You think we don’t know you’re behind this?” I hiss through clenched teeth. He looks so damn pleased with himself, and I guess he should be. He’s probably going to get away with it. Rich, self-important assholes almost always do.

He smirks at me, his eyes a pale blue—like they’ve sat in the sun so long the color’s washed out. “I’m rich, Ryan. What would I want with a bunch of tag sale trash?”

From the way he says it—with his sneer and taunting tone—I know he’s not just talking about Anabelle’s precious belongings. He’s talking about the love of my life. So I don’t think. I just lunge forward and punch him in the face. Exactly the way he wanted me to.

Five minutes later, Officer Asshole is dragging me out of the B&B and cuffing me, in full view of dozens of tourists.

Here I go again, creating a mess, when all I wanted to do was avoid one.