Page 18 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Until we meet again.

Yours,

Grandma Edith

It’s a hard thing to toss away someone’s dying wish.

I tell myself that’s why I’m going to stay, not because I have a crush on Anabelle Whitman.

Romancing Edith’s lovely granddaughter would be a shitty way of repaying her kindness. I’m tempted anyway, which is probably why I don’t think I’ve changed enough to present myself to my brother.

CHAPTER SIX

ANABELLE

Nothing is the way it’s supposed to be. I need a reset, a couple of hours to pour myself into crafting, but Weston wouldn’t understand. He knows about my diagnosis, but he’s one of those people who says things like “all people are a little autistic,” and “there’s no real way of diagnosing it, Belle.” He thinks I’m making excuses, when I’m only trying to explain myself.

Saint Nick bats at my ankle as I arrive at the door to my room. I reach down to pet his head, keeping the chocolate shirt out of reach. Then I let him in and close my door behind us, taking in the room I’ve repurposed for myself.

After I inherited the inn, I moved out of the single-room apartment I’d been renting in a complex full of college students and moved in here. Weston didn’t approve, and neither did my parents. But Ilovethis building—from the way the old wooden floors creak under my feet to the rasp of the brick under my fingers. I even love the smell, which reminds me of opening an old book and sniffing along the spine. Every last inch of this place reminds me of my grandmother.

There’s a queen-sized bed with an old-fashioned canopy—an antique—a washstand, an old rolltop desk and chair, and of course, one of my Christmas trees in the corner. There’sa workbench between the bed and the desk, precisely in the middle of the thick red carpet, and my fingers itch to go to it, to create. I found two ruined Santa Clauses at thrift stores last week, metal and wood, and I’m combining them into what Jo calls one of my Franken-Santas. They’re what my business is most known for—Santas created from the ruined remains of other Santas.

But Weston is cross with me, and he’s been so impatient lately. So have I, to be honest.

When Weston and I first met, I could barely believe that a man like him would be interested inme. He seemed so accomplished and put-together. He uses an accountant to prepare his taxes and employs a maid and a gardener even though his house isn’t terribly large. I was drawn to his organized life. It feltsafeand comforting, and I was charmed by the way he’d tell everyone we met about It’s Christmas Again. He’s the one who insisted I get business cards, and he’s passed out more of them than I have.

But he’s always seen my Christmas business as an eccentric hobby, and he’s made it very clear that my decision to run the B&B myself is “misguided.” Lately, every time he’s around, I feel stifled, and my skin seems to revolt from his touch. I want to enjoy having his arm around me, the way I used to, but it’s begun to feel like he’s restraining me, not comforting me.

I throw the ruined green blouse in the trash, and then I tug off Ryan’s warm, soft sweater, sighing slightly because I like the way it feels against my skin, and change into a fresh blouse. As I finish straightening the blouse, I hear a creak from the next room over, and suddenly I’m deeply attuned to the fact that Ryan’s in there. What’s he doing?

What’s hethinking?

It’s never been easy for me to guess.

I find myself pressing my palm to the cool wall dividing our rooms as if it were a beating heart and not made of plaster and wood. I feel a slight vibration against it, as if he’s leaning on it from the other side, his hand pressed to the same spot where mine rests, and my pulse starts to race.

Coming to my senses, I recoil from the wall as if it stung me. It was kind of Ryan to lend me his sweater, and kinder of him to stand up for me, but I don’t know him. He’s a stranger. A stranger who swears and keeps secrets and does God only knows what.

Grandma Edith asked me to be good to him, and I will be, but I should keep my distance. He’s unpredictable, and unpredictable things are inherently dangerous.

I fold the sweater up primly, meaning to set it outside of his door, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. It’s just so soft, so blue. Exactly the sort of thing I’d like to wear to bed.

You can’t keep it, a voice in my head insists.

Ryan told me I could, but if I keep it, then it would mean something. That we’re friends, maybe, and I’m far from sure it’s a good idea to be his friend. So I promise myself I’ll launder it and return it. Sometime.

Giving the sweater a final, wistful glance, I grab my coat from my closet and head downstairs. Weston is sitting at my desk, his head bent over my computer, and a strange feeling ofsomething’s wrongcomes over me.

I hurry down the rest of the steps, but by the time I reach the desk, he’s already shut the laptop.

“What were you doing?” I ask, hearing the accusatory thread in my voice. Feeling my heart pound.

You trust Weston, I remind myself.It’s okay if he uses your things.

But my laptop is more than just a thing.

Everything for It’s Christmas Again is on there.

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