Page 22 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I stare at him evenly, and he turns and stalks off down the stairs, straightening the collar of his coat. His posture is as ramrod straight as if someone stuck a broom up his ass. No one’sever accused me of maturity, so of course I give his back the bird. Then I stand there and wait, watching until he leaves and the front door shuts behind him.

Turning, I face Anabelle’s door. I find myself flattening my palm against the wood as if my hand could send a silent message. Maybe I’m truly losing it, because I can almost feel her smaller hand pressing back from the other side.

“He’s gone now,” I say.

It’s completely quiet in the room, and for a minute, I think she really did sneak out through the back. Either that or she has no more interest in talking to me right now than she did in talking to him.

But then she whispers, “Thank you,” her voice so soft I can barely hear it.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” I ask, because if he did, there’s still time for me to run him down and lay into him. I’d do it too, despite knowing I’d probably get thrown into the can for it.

“No, nothing like that,” she says softly. “But I think I need to be alone now.”

Her voice is sad, too sad.

“Can I help you, Anabelle? Anything you need. Your grandmother...” I swallow, unable to finish. I’m talking to a damn door, and I’m getting choked up.Get it together.“She helped me out when I was in a low place. Let me do something for you.Please.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and then the door creaks open.

I’m stunned to see she’s wearingmysweater.

Something primal in me is pleased.

Her hair hangs down around her shoulders in honeyed brown waves. There’s a glassy look in her eyes, but she seems unharmed, thank God.

“Would you…” She looks away. “I’m sorry, Ryan. This is totally inappropriate.”

“I told you I’d do anything.”

“I forgot to officially cancel Hot Chocolate Happy Hour. I…Weston’s right. No one will probably come, but if you could sit down there at five for an hour or so… And top up the hot chocolate. There are supplies in the kitchen. It’s—”

“I remember. And it’s no problem. It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” she says again, her voice stronger. “That’s very good of you. All the rooms are full, so there won’t be anyone checking in or out. If any of the guests need anything, they have my phone number. I keep it in all the rooms.”

I’m dying to know what happened, but I don’t want to be one more burden for her. I won’t be.

So I just watch as she softly closes the door, her body engulfed in my blue sweater, and I vow to myself that while I might not know what I’m doing here, or what I’m going to be doing here for the indefinite future, I am going to pull off one hell of a Hot Chocolate Happy Hour.

There’sonly Baileys in the cabinet, which feels insufficient for a happy hour. So I run to the store to pick up some cinnamon whiskey and peppermint schnapps, some big-ass marshmallows shaped like Christmas trees, and a couple of packages of cookies. When I get back, I top off the hot chocolate and head into the scary Santa parlor with the goods. No one’s there yet, and according to Anabelle, there’s a pretty good chance no one’s going to be there, period, so I pour myself some of the whiskey, sit down on the couch, and continue the job search on my phone.

Maybe I should be panicking—I don’t have a job, a high school degree, or any bankable abilities, I’m still at odds with my brother, and I’m in a place where I don’t know anyone. Hell, maybe I am panicking, deep inside, but a part of me feelsrelieved. I’ve got a clean slate, and even if I don’t know what to fill it with, it’s better than having a slate full of bullshit.

I set down the phone after a few minutes and pace around the room, taking in the changes since last Christmas. The Santa Clauses have moved in, of course, and the tree is bigger this year—a seven footer. It’s like Christmas vomited all over the room. What I’m saying is it’s too much—muchtoo much—and yet it’s not without charm.

I hear the creak of floorboards. Excitement leaps inside me, and when I look outside the double doors, I see a middle-aged woman beelining for the stairs.

“Care for some hot chocolate?” I ask, and she flinches in surprise and nearly trips over her feet before turning to face me.

“Who areyou?”

“I’m Anabelle’s friend, Ryan. I’m running happy hour for her.”

She glances at the credenza with something like longing, but then her gaze pings to the Santa Clauses and her lips firm into a line of distaste. “No, thank you. Those dolls will be haunting my dreams. I see no reason why I should let them haunt my daylight hours too.”

I don’t deny the point. I’m none too fond of staring eyes watching me either.

I’d offer the woman a hot chocolate to go, but before I can say anything else, she’s hurrying up the stairs like a fleet of Santa Clauses are chasing her.

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