Page 126 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Without missing a beat, he tugs me up from the chair and puts his arms around me, hugging me tightly to his body. It feels so good, so comforting, and tears begin tracking down my cheeks.

“Oh, Anabelle,” he murmurs, holding me tighter.

“It’s okay,” I say, wanting to mean it.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers into my ear, and that’s so much closer to being true. He kisses the top of my head, and I feel it everywhere. “Will they give you back your Santas?” he asks.

“They’re evidence, I guess. We’ll get everything back, but not before Christmas.”

“We’ll have a party to welcome them home.” He must see the aghast look on my face because he smiles softly and adds, “A private party. I’ll make cookies.”

“Just don’t let Cynthia help.” I smile at him, but I can feel it slipping from my face as sadness floods me. “It hurts, Ryan,” I say, gripping his shirt and feeling the hard, reassuringly strong chest beneath. “It hurts so much. It sounds stupid, but I hate to think of my Santas being alone on Christmas, in some police station evidence locker. It’s not right.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid at all.” He glances at the front door. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” I ask, thrown. It’s late afternoon on Christmas Eve. I wasn’t planning ongoinganywhere. We may only have two guests, but they said they were definitely going to be at Hot Chocolate Happy Hour.

I tell him as much.

“Cynthia and Jeremy said they’d host Hot Chocolate Happy Hour. We have somewhere to be.”

“I don’t think I can bear any more surprises right now,” I warn him, feeling a tremor at the thought. “I have to call my father’s lawyer for him. I won’t bail him out—my mother can do that—but I will do this.”

“Okay,” he says, his brow furrowed. “And then we’re going to go see your grandmother.”

I haven’t beento the graveyard for a few weeks, and tears pool in my eyes when I see there’s a small potted Christmas tree next to the last, frozen bouquet I brought.

“You’ve been here,” I say, glancing at Ryan in wonder. He’s never once mentioned it.

He squeezes my hand. “I found out where she was buried from the funeral notice. Some mornings I stop by after going to the gym. I never had a grandmother, so I like to borrow yours sometimes.”

“Do you talk to her?” I ask.

“I do. I tell her about you, mostly.” He tucks my hair behind my ears. “I know she’d be so proud of you. Not so much of your dad, but she already told me she thought he was stupid.”

“She didn’t,” I gasp, delighted despite myself.

“She did. And she told me that her granddaughter was smart and beautiful, and much too good for her deadbeat boyfriend. I’ve got to say I agree with her. About Westonandabout me.”

I nudge his shoulder. “Weston’s not a deadbeat. He’s rich and successful.”

He grins. “There you are, with your truth bombs.”

“But his soul is rotten. Yours is beautiful. You may not have the job you want right now, but you’re going to find it, because that special light in you creates light in other people. Howeverrich and successful Weston becomes, he will never have that. Ever.” I brace myself, preparing to say something I’m not sure how he’ll receive. “You know, I hope you’re going to reach out to your brother soon, because I don’t have any brothers or sisters, and I might want to borrow yours sometimes.”

He traces the side of my face, his gaze distant. “You might like him better than me. He’s less scattered.”

“It would be impossible for me to like anyone better than you. I like everything about you.”

“Even my lack of order?”

“It allows me to impose my own order.”

He smiles at me and leans in to brush his forehead against mine. “I’ll reach out to him. After Christmas.”

“You don’t need a fancy job to impress him, either.”

“I know…and I’m going to call him. I even wrote it into that planner you gave me last week. I just have to think about what to say.”

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