Page 101 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

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

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

RYAN

“If you warn him off, he’ll know you’re onto him, and he’ll do something less stupid,” Jeremy says. “You want him to keep being a dumbass so we can catch him in something illegal and havehimarrested instead of you.”

We’re at the Green Leafe Café again. When I told Jeremy I needed his help with something, he insisted on buying me a drink, saying,I think I’ll have to keep buying you drinks for the rest of my life.

The trip to Richmond went well, and now he and Cynthia are a thing. I’m happy for the guy. It’s a hell of a feeling when the woman you’re falling for wants you too.

Anabelle and Joe spent most of the morning working on their online store, although Anabelle also filed online to change the B&B’s name and ordered a new sign.

I picked up locks for the windows at the home improvement store, plus a deadbolt for the front door. If Westie is still having us followed, installing new locks is likely to be noticed. Maybe he’ll see it as evidence that we have the ornament, if that’s what he’s after. But fuck it. I’ll feel like Anabelle’s a hell of a lot safer with the locks.

The supposed building inspector has yet to answer her email, and my suspicions about him are getting stronger, like a stomach virus that sets in with indigestion and then has you puking your guts out over a toilet for ten hours.

I’m consumed with the painful need to keep Anabelle safe. The way she got down on her knees for me last night broke something inside of me—and then healed it. She’s my Christmas witch. I’m not going to let any harm come to her, from anyone. Iwillprotect her at all costs.

Jeremy, Joe, and Cynthia have all volunteered to help with the locks, but only Jeremy has any experience with home improvement projects. So Cynthia said she’d help Joe and Anabelle disperse the non-scavenger-hunt Santas and also finish writing new ad copy for the inn.

“I don’t like that you’re right,” I say, finally responding to Jeremy.

“I can’t agree with you there.” He grins as he touches his glass to mine. “I always like being right. But if it makes you feel better, I can recruit some of my buddies to serenade him the next time we see him on DoG Street.”

I grin at that thought, then shake my head. “Nah, it would be funny as hell, but you’re right. I don’t want to get him any more riled up.”

He laughs. “True.” He takes another sip of his beer, then asks, “You have any interest in plumbing? My uncle’s losing one of his guys in January, and he could use another helper who’s good with his hands.”

“Seriously?” I ask in disbelief. “I don’t have any experience.”

He shrugs. “Even he uses YouTube to figure shit out. I’ll be perfectly honest with you, though, I hated working with him. He’s a loudmouth, and half of the job is clearing out people’s toilets after they flush down all manner of things. You literally don’t want to know. But there’s some cool shit, and the pay’s notbad. Definitely better money than playing trumpet or pretending to be Santa Claus.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” I say, feeling like my words have dried up. It’s hard to believe two people have gone out of their way to try to find me work in as many days.

He claps me on the back. “We gotta keep you around, man.”

“Is that Cynthia talking, or you?”

He gives me a slow grin and taps the bar. “You know what? I feel confident that I’m talking for all of us, man. Anabelle and her buddy too.”

On Saturday,we get the locks on the windows and front door installed. At one point, I see someone watching us from the street—a bald guy in a nondescript black coat, jeans, and generic tennis shoes. I don’t know if he’s the private investigator, but I do know what it looks like when a guy dresses to avoid getting noticed. I’ve done it myself often enough. So I salute him.

He flinches and immediately walks off, which doesn’t mean anything, but I’m left with a feeling that we’re being watched by shitty-sneakers guy.

“Weston will give up eventually,” Anabelle tells me, but I’m not banking on it. He didn’t just lose his woman—if he’s having me followed, he knows by now that he lost her tome. He’ll have guessed that I’m in her bed almost every night, that I’m kissing and holding her and making her moan. I haven’t fully made love to her yet, but he doesn’t know that. It must drive him crazy thinking that I have what he was stupid enough to lose.

I’m worried Weston will try screwing up my weekend shifts at the toy shop, but Ada put up some signs saying, “Parking lot is under surveillance.” I don’t see any cameras, and I doubt shewent to the trouble of actually installing any, but Weston doesn’t seem like a guy who’d know what a security camera looks like. He’s a man who pays other people to do things for him and has never learned to do them himself.

I told Anabelle she didn’t need to come back to the shop with me, being that it can’t be fun to watch me pretend to be Santa Claus for several hours in a row, but she said that I “greatly underestimated” how hot I looked in my Santa suit.

She comes both days, although she brings noise-cancelling ear protection and a book.

It fills my fucking cup to have her there.

Cynthia gets her a Mrs. Claus costume as a gag, and she actually wears it to the shop on Sunday. The kids pay her more attention than she’d probably like, and I’m worried that she’ll be worn out by it. After my shift, though, she insists it was fun—and I insist that she keep her costume on while I get down on my knees beside the bed and tuck her legs over my shoulders so I can lose myself in heaven.

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