Page 21 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I can practically hear my grandmother saying,But it’s gratifying forhim, Anabelle. The man likes to put on a show.

For some reason, I flash to Ryan’s face, smiling at me.

Ryan, standing up for me.

He’s a stranger with many objectionable qualities, yet evenhecares more about my safety and well-being than my boyfriend.

I say one word clearly, and as loudly as that bell.

“No.”

Apparently, not clearly or loudly enough, because Weston shoves the ring box at me again and says, “What? Did you say—”

“No.” I jerk away from the box. “It’s over, Weston.”

And then I run.

CHAPTER SEVEN

RYAN

For the past hour, I’ve been sitting on my bed googling local jobs, because if I’m going to potentially be here for weeks, I can’t sit on my ass the whole time. My body is already thrumming, wanting to move, to do, to see, to make. I might not have many talents, but I have energy to spare. I’ve always been like that, like an overcharged battery waiting to explode if I don’t move enough. So far I’ve applied for a bartending job, two waiter jobs, a Christmas-tree-cutting gig, and a Santa job at a local toy store.

I’m looking up local gyms when the sound of a door slamming echoes through the whole building. Even the floors seem to tremble. Seconds later, the door to the room next to mine closes forcefully, and my jaw tightens with anger. Especially when I hear a second set of footsteps moving up the stairs seconds later.

That asshole.

I knew I didn’t like Weston. He’s a man who talks down to people and expects them to look up.

I step out of my room just as he makes it to the top stair. His cheeks are red. I’m pleased to see his hair is a mess and he looks pissed off.

He’s about to be more pissed off.

I step in front of Anabelle’s door.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Weston demands, his face getting redder. He sweeps bright blond hair out of his face as he stops several steps away.

“She just stormed up here and slammed the door.” I lift my eyebrows. “Does that sound like the behavior of someone who’d like to be bothered?”

“This is between me and my girlfriend,” he snarls. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’s on the edge, and I won’t lie—I’d like to push him off it. But I settle for standing my ground and nonverbally pointing out the obvious. He may be taller, but I’m a hell of a lot fitter. If I don’t want to let him past me, he’s not getting past.

I want to ask him what he did to her.

But if he tells me, I might be tempted to punch him. Punching could lead to an arrest, and I don’t know anyone in town who could bail me out.

“You’re out of line,” he says, pointing a finger at me.

I reach up and swat it away, putting enough muscle behind it that he’ll recognize what he’s dealing with. “Probably,” I agree. “But so are you. Go home and cool off.”

He gives me a look that he probably hopes will kill me, but lucky me, he’s no superhero.

“We’ll talk about this later, Anabelle,” he says, peering past me. “This isn’t over.”

The door doesn’t open, and there’s no noise from the other side. It’s as if she’s climbed out the window. Hell, maybe she did.

Giving me another death glare, he says, “You should mind your own business. You have no place here.”

The joke’s on him. I have no place anywhere.

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