Page 12 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I bring it over, and only then realize you shouldn’t make assumptions about things like alcohol consumption. Something I should probably know as an innkeeper.

“You’re not an alcoholic are you?”

He nearly drops the letter as he glances up, his eyes wide before they settle on the mug. His lips edge up. “I don’t think so, but I guess it depends on who you ask.”

It’s not a no. I hang on to the mug.

He gives a low laugh. “I’m not an alcoholic, Anabelle. Although I may be by the time I finish reading this letter.”

I hand over the mug, and his fingers brush mine again. Suddenly, I feel embarrassed and hot behind the ears. Maybe because he’s watching me with that slightly amused expression. Still, I don’t turn away until he lifts the mug to his mouth for a sip, his lips pressing to the place where mine usually do.

He’s still smiling as he lowers the mug. “Just like your grandmother made it.”

Emotion presses through me.

I’m tempted to stay in the parlor. To peer over Ryan’s shoulder as he reads the note so I can experience, through him, the last words my grandmother will ever say.

But I nod and say, “She knew best,” before turning back toward the door.

It’s been an intense afternoon, though, so I stop to pour myself some hot chocolate with Baileys too before I return to my desk and give him his privacy.

Saint Nick is roaming around my chair in agitation.

“You don’t like him, huh?” I say as I set my mug down on the desktop and stoop to pick him up. He swats at my hand, giving me an affronted look that suggests he’s doing some veryimportant work, thank you very much, and doesn’t need the interruption.

I wake my laptop from sleep and try to work, slowly sipping on the cocoa to calm my nerves. It doesn’t work. I’m very aware of Ryan Reynolds sitting in the other room, reading that note.

I’m deeply curious about what it says.

I’m deeply curious abouthim.

About fifteen minutes later, which seems like a very long time to read a letter, Ryan approaches the desk again, his duffel bag once again slung over his shoulder. His eyes are slightly red, and I feel a fresh surge of sympathy.

“Hey, Anabelle,” he says, planting a hand on the desk. I watch, a little mesmerized, until he pulls it away with a knowing smile. “Thanks for the hot chocolate.”

“You’re welcome.”

I struggle with my brain. I don’t want to ask what a private note said, but the need to do so keeps repeating itself in my brain.

“I’d like a room, if you have one available.”

His request piques my curiosity more. My grandmother had warned me that he’d want to stay. But why?

The questions are surging through my head with such intensity that one tumbles out: “Why?”

The corner of his mouth tips up, his eyes crinkle at the edges, and suddenly his face is too much for me to look at. I glance away. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I—”

“I wish I could tell you what was in the note,” he says, his voice low, pitched just for me. “I know you must be wondering. Hell, if I were you, I would have opened it last month, but I’ve never been good with self-restraint.”

“You’re still not going to tell me?” I sneak a glance at him. Those dark eyebrows of his are beautifully arched, I notice. Perfectly symmetrical.

“Not yet.” He lifts a hand to his mouth as he glances around the lobby again. I notice a small scar under his lip, maybe half an inch long. “It’s strange being here. Having everything look different.”

“It’s perfectly appropriate to have Christmas decorations at this time of year,” I say stiffly. Because this is a comment that’s shown up a couple of times in the guest book since I reopened last week.

Strange décor.

Trying too hard.

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