The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ANABELLE

Sunday, December 23, 2 days until Christmas

Terrifying plans: 1

“I’ve changed my mind,” I say. “I don’t think it’s a good idea anymore. It may be a horrible idea.”

“Too late.” Ryan traces his hand down my hair. “No take-backsies.”

We’re sitting in the parlor with Cynthia, Jeremy, and Joe. Ryan and I are on the sofa with Joe, while Cynthia and Jeremy are on the love seat. It’s their lunch break, and we’re discussing Operation Save Christmas.

Unprincipled though he is, Stanley the Serpent at least left our trees. They’re frightfully bare, though, and I long for my little men in red. Even Ryan said he was surprised by how much he misses “the little suckers.” Of course, he didn’t say suckers.

“I like the plan,” Jeremy says.

Cynthia shoves his shoulder. “Yeah, because you don’t have to have a sit-down with Weston.”

He chuckles, sweetly running a lock of her hair between his fingers. “Nice try. I know you’re looking forward to it. I’m guessing he’ll walk away with one less nut.”

She smiles primly at him, looking pleased, before she shoves his shoulder again. I glance at Ryan, wanting to say, you did this. In a positive way, of course, not accusatory. He winks at me and pulls me closer.

“What do you want me to do while you’re…” Joe waves his hand to encompass the breaking and entering part of the plan.

“The most important job of all, buddy,” Ryan tells him. “Hold down the fort. We shouldn’t leave the B I can’t deny it. “You did let me think you were a woman for over a year.”

“You know how I feel about children.”

I do. He thinks they’re cute in theory but terrifying in practice. “I know, but this is your chance to be Ryan’s hero, Joe. I believe you can do it.”

He rubs his cheek and takes stock of the Christmas tree behind the front desk, which Ryan carried single-handedly from Joe’s old apartment. His ornaments were stolen too.

“I’ll do it,” he says with the bravery of a man about to drive off a cliff.

“That’s the spirit!”

“I expect you to sympathetically listen to my stories when I get back, even if it only sounds like I’m complaining.”

“I’ll let you complain as much as you want.”

He sighs dramatically. “Take me to the Santa suit.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Smiling, he nudges his shoulder against mine. “Even though you stole my boyfriend.”

After Joe leaves for the toy store, I find Cynthia in the kitchen. Sure enough, she’s making cookies, and they smell divine. I go to take one of them off the cooling rack, and she raps my knuckles. “Those are for the guests.”

“We only have two people staying with us right now,” I point out.

“No, I meant Weston.” She gives me a wicked smile. “It’s a special recipe.”

“Cynthia Matthews, we are not poisoning him.”

“It’s not poison. Just a little Ex-Lax. Don’t you think he deserves to publicly shit his pants after everything he’s put you through?”

“We already have plans for him,” I say, propping a hand on my hip, Cynthia’s signature move, and look her in the eye for half a second before shifting my gaze to her nose. Right now, my system is overloading, everything a bit too much, but I have to get through the day. I have to. Gusting out a big puff of air, I say, “The last thing I need is for you to get in trouble for a juvenile prank.”

“What if we leave them out and tell him they’re only for the guests, and he eats one anyway? That would be his own prickery biting him in the ass. ”

I consider her argument for a moment before admitting, “There’s some poetic justice to that, and we may need the extra delay, but we’ll have to throw out the rest so none of the guests eat them.”

She beams at me. “Ryan’s a good influence on you.”

“You know, I may actually be a bad influence on him,” I say, thinking again about my plan. Fretting. I’ll probably do it constantly until he comes home to me. That’s what matters; I care less about whether we get the Santas and ornaments back or force Weston to pay for what he’s done.

“Oh, good influence, bad influence.” She waves her hand. “We’re all fabulous, and that’s what matters.”

She certainly is.

I pull her into a spontaneous hug, and she hugs me back before saying, “Are you drunk? No judgment, but you’re usually not a random hugger.”

“Not yet, but I think I’d like to be. After Weston leaves.”

Weston knocks on the door fifteen minutes early, but if he meant to make us flustered, he failed, because Cynthia and I have been waiting in the parlor, the plate of forbidden cookies out on the coffee table.

I open the door, gasping when I catch sight of him. He has two black eyes he’s tried to cover up with concealer—ineffectually—and he has some kind of tape over his nose, which is swollen and red.

“Yeah, you see what your thug boyfriend did to me,” he says.

I don’t feel sorry for him.

For one thing, he clearly intended for Ryan to hit him. He had people waiting out front to get a good photograph of him being handcuffed. Weston stalked us, tried to get Ryan fired, sent two strangers into my home to steal from me, and if I’m right about where the stolen ornaments and army of red-suited men are right now, he did me another unforgivable wrong.

So, if anyone can be said to deserve a broken nose, it’s my ex-boyfriend.

“Allegedly,” I say, stepping aside so he can enter.

He gives me a disbelieving look. “Who have you become?”

“Someone I like. Come in if you’d like to talk. Ryan’s not here.”

He enters as slowly as possible, probably to maximize my inconvenience and make me cold from the open door. Fine. The longer he takes, the longer Ryan and Jeremy will have.

By now, Cynthia will have already texted them Gingerbread o’clock , our agreed-upon signal for It’s go time.

“I hope you’ve thrown him out,” Weston says, grabbing my shoulder to stall me. I recoil, my skin revolting from his flesh coming anywhere close to mine, even through layers of fabric.

“For defending me?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“For being a violent animal. He’s lucky they didn’t put him down like a rabid dog.”

Any possible remorse over my plan dries up on the spot. He deserves it. He deserves whatever is coming to him.

“Right this way,” I say, and as soon as I lead him into the parlor, I ask, “Would you like a cookie? Cynthia just made them fresh.”