Page 23 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Maybe someone should talk to Anabelle about the Santa Clauses. It may be an award-winning collection, but that doesn’t mean they’re not scary, grouped in here like a gang.

No one else comes by, so I return to my drink and my phone. The only other people who have this number are Javier and his buddy Bad Mike, so I’m not surprised to see a text from Javier:

You get in okay?

He knows where I am and why, just like I know he and his buddy are cooling their heels in New Jersey.

I respond by sending him a few photos of the room.

You get fucked by Santa yet?

Other than my brother, Javier may be the only friend I’ve got who wouldn’t take me being blackout drunk as an invitation to draw a dick on my face, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be tempted.

Not yet, brother, but give me time. All good on your end?

No sign of snow.

Meaning no movement from Roark. Good.

After an hour, I leave the inn to wander up Duke of Gloucester Street. The air is chilly but not freezing. The shops are bustling, and all of the buildings have fake candles lit in the windows. I feel good. I could dig deeper under that feeling and find all kinds of not-so-good feelings, but I can’t think why I’d want to.

When I get back up to my room, a note has been slipped under my door—

Thank you for helping, Ryan. Seriously. Thank you.

Would you like to go to an estate sale with me tomorrow morning? I’ll be leaving just after we clean up from breakfast, at nine thirty.

Regards,

Anabelle

Smiling, I create a little checkbox at the bottom of the note, check it, and scrawlhell yesnext to it. Then I go slide it under her door—and wait until I hear the rasp of her pulling the paper to her.

I’m grinning as I head back to my room, although I don’t have the boner for estate sales my former boss used to. He had a talent for looking at objects and knowing their worth. I never have. But I already know whatshe’sworth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ANABELLE

Wednesday, December 3, 22 days until Christmas

Santas sold today: 5

Santas made or purchased today: TBD, but I’ve seen the photos for this estate sale and fear the worst

I figured I was being kind, inviting Ryan to the estate sale with me. Grandma Edith wanted me to befriend him, and so far he’s been yelled at by my ex-boyfriend, maimed by my cat, and I topped it all off by stealing his sweater. Not an encouraging start. Iloveestate sales, however, and you’re supposed to share the things you love with people you’re trying to befriend, so I figured I was finally doing right by him.

Now, as Cynthia and I finish loading up the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes, I’m less certain.

Ryan hasn’t come down at all, which feels like a slap in the face to Cynthia, who really is the power performer in our bed and breakfast team. She prepared biscuits and scrambled eggsand bacon, and even though I only eat biscuits out of that list, I must say she outdid herself. But Ryan wouldn’t know, because it’s nine thirty-one, and he still has not come downstairs.

Tardy, I decide, agreeing with my past self.

Of course, there are worse things in life than being tardy, but being off schedule is going to propel my day down the wrong path. I can feel it happening, like little prickles dancing across my skin. Everything’s already off-kilter because I still haven’t talked with Weston after he left yesterday. I texted an apology and an offer to discuss what happened, but he didn’t respond. So even though I feel confident in my choice, it feels like we’ve drifted into a gray area. Not together, not officially broken up.

I’m ready for black-and-white.

Listening to Weston’s proposal was like biting into an apple and only realizing it’s rotten after a piece of it is sitting in your mouth. Our relationship has been rotten for a long time, and it’s only because I’ve been so distracted by Grandma Edith’s illness and death that I didn’t realize it.

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