Page 129 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

It’s late, we’re all tipsy, and the only guests in the inn are currently Hank and Rachel, who declined to watchDie Hard, opting instead to go upstairs and have intercourse that made the floor creak. Cynthia and Jeremy have agreed to stay the night, and we all go to bed in our respective rooms, although I grab Ryan by the bottom of his shirt and lead him into mine.

“Seeing all those red bows around town has given me ideas,” he says, giving me a wicked look.

I like that look, when it comes from him. It makes me feel a little wicked too, and wanton. “Would you like me to tie your hair up in a bow?” I ask as he shuts the door and backs me into the wall, the proximity to him making my whole body hum from pleasure.

He gathers my hands in his, easily encircling my wrists, and says, “I had a different idea.”

“Show me.”

And he does, thoroughly, making me come twice, the second time as the hour turns over at midnight—a fact confirmed by my digital clock on the bedside table.

“It’s Christmas,” I say, once I’m able to form words again. Using his teeth, he grabs the end of the bow he used to tie my hands to the headboard and pulls it loose.

“That could have come off at any time.”

“I may have exaggerated about being a good boy scout. I just…I really want you to open one of your presents.”

“You didn’t need to get me more presents! You got me fifty-two Santas.”

He waves a hand, giving me a flash of his tattoo. “That came later. I’d already finished my shopping. Come on. This is one you have to open now.”

He opens my closet, then grabs a present wrapped in green paper from behind the hanging dresses.

“You hid it behind my clothes?”

“If we have kids, you’ll obviously be in charge of hiding the presents. Your super secret place is much better.”

I smile at him, imagining a little Ryan. “Deal.”

He brings the wrapped present over to the bed, and I run my fingers over it, then shake it, all while he watches me, practically bouncing on his feet.

I open the wrapping paper, smiling to myself, and find a beautiful green sweater. When I run my fingers across the fabric, I know.

“You found one that has the same fiber blend as your blue sweater,” I say through that same stocking-in-throat feeling. No one’s ever taken such notice of my sensory preferences.

“I washed it so you can put it on now, if you’d like to,” he says, his eyes flashing with excitement.

I do, then go to the closet and pull on a pair of underwear and my favorite snowflake pajama pants.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“For what?”

“I assume you’re about to play Santa Claus, and I figured maybe you’d let a former Grinch be your sidekick. I got something for everyone too.”

“Even Hank and Rachel?”

“It would have been rude not to,” he says, pulling on his clothes. I’m still in the closet, so I throw him his Santa jacket, now laundered.

He grins at me and tugs it on. “You ready?”

I glance at him as I pop the hidden button in the closet, and the secret compartment, built by an ancestor who didn’t think much of Prohibition, pops open. I’m grateful for their love of alcohol, because this space is what saved the sunburst ornament, allowing it to be used in my plan. “Absolutely.”

He steps close, his bare feet padding against the wooden floor. Saint Nick, who left the bed in a huff earlier, when we decided we’d like to use it, follows him, his tail twitching.

Ryan crouches to peer inside of the secret compartment and then stands up straight and grins at me. “Can we take them down in a big red sack?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” I say. “It would look impressive, certainly, but we don’t want to damage the presents.”

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