Page 26 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“I haven’t had that pleasure.”

“Sorry. I have a weird sense of humor. He…it’s just…heproposedto me. That’s the awful thing that ran me off.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, surprised. His mouth curling, he shifts his weight and says, “Thatasshole.”

I laugh harder this time, and once I’ve laughed myself dry, I say, “Most people would sayI’mthe asshole. He’d gathered a crowd of people, hired a trumpeter, and I said no to him in front of all of them. People captured it on film. Hence my potential infamy.”

His grin hitches higher, displaying a profound lack of symmetry that’s more appealing rather than less. “There was his mistake. Never ask a yes-or-no question if you can’t handle ‘no.’ And definitely don’t do it in front of a crowd.”

He pauses, studying me, and I’m struck by his physical presence. He’s tall but not overly so and very strong, with thick, muscular arms and legs. Usually, people who are strong are intimidating, but I don’t feel nervous around him. Possibly because he blocked my door to protect me yesterday. His stare lingers for a moment before he says, “You don’t strike me as a woman who likes to be on display.”

“I’m not,” I agree. “After I said no, I ran away.” I release a groan and rub my forehead. “Literally. It wasn’t the least bit dignified.”

His forehead furrows slightly. My gaze drifts down his face, taking in his nose, his nicely formed lips, that scar… When he speaks, it almost makes me flinch. “Did you step in horse manure? Or trip? I saw a video once of a woman who tripped while she was running away from the altar.”

“No,” I say, laughing. Then I feel bad for laughing, because there’s nothing funny about the worst day of someone’s life. “That’s awful.”

“Agreed. Which means your situation could have been much worse. And I’m guessing this guy knows you don’t like being on display?”

“Oh, he definitely does. Crowds have always made my skin itch. Loud noises too. The trumpet made me feel like my head was splitting in half. Still…I didn’t handle it well.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s the asshole. I’m officially clearing you of wrongdoing.” He watches me for a second before adding, “Do you want to make up with him?”

I must reflexively make a face, because he laughs. But an unintentional grimace is not an answer, and for some reason, I want to give him one. “No. It doesn’t feel right anymore. It hasn’t for a while now.” I draw in a slow, calming breath and let it seep out. “But I still feel awful for running off on him like that. I just…had to. And I’m sorry if I’ve been unpleasant to you.”

He puffs out a breath. “I’m probably going to do something stupid within the next half hour, so let’s agree to let our apologies cancel each other out.”

I give him a sidelong look, smiling as I lead the way to the door. “Does that mean I get to revoke my apology?”

“Revoke away,” he says with a grin as we exit the inn together.

“I hereby un-apologize to you, Ryan Reynolds,” I say, tapping his hand as if mine were turned into a magical wand.

He grabs his heart with his egg sandwich hand, acting as if he’s been mortally wounded, and I laugh so hard my eyes start watering as I lead the way to my car. It’s parked behind the inn because there’s no driving on this part of Duke of Gloucester Street.

I’m both horrified and fascinated when Ryan eats his sandwich on the way there, then tosses the wrapper into the public trashcan closest to the car.

Once we’re loaded up, I check my phone and find a message from Cynthia:

Please make this your rebound. I’m asking you kindly.

I ignore it, but a blush burns my cheeks as I plug the address into the maps app.

“Do you go to estate sales a lot?” Ryan asks.

“Oh, Ilovethem,” I say, immediately warming to the subject as I maneuver the car out of Colonial Williamsburg. The estate sale we’re going to is in Newport News, and the listing mentioned four boxes of vintage Christmas decorations. “You never know what you’re going to find, but I can always tell when something was loved by someone. It’s like in that bookThe Velveteen Rabbit—sometimes the nose is worn off, or there’s damage, but the object has been lovedrealin a way that changes it.” I shrug self-consciously, aware that I’ve let myself sink into the conversation in a way that might feel like too much to him. “Anyway…it feels good to give things like that a new life. A new purpose. It’s like I’m honoring the person who loved them.”

“Will you show me?” he asks, turning a bit so he has a direct view of me. “I want to know how you can tell.”

My heart warms to him, because I can tell he means it. He wants to understand my silly fancies and walk into my imagination with me. I should warn him that it’s a place where I get lost. Instead, I swallow and say, “I will.”

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I never really had anything like that. Any belongings that were special to me, but I’ve known other people who’ve felt that way.”

“Didn’t you have a teddy bear or something when you were a kid?”

He smiles and looks off. “There was one. Only one. My brother and I shared it, but it meant more to him than it did to me, so I let him keep it.”

I feel a grasping sensation in my chest, like a spectral hand trying to reach out to him in comfort. My parents are cold and usually disappointed in me—grow up, Anabelle—but they always provided for me. I had plenty of stuffed animals, anabundance of them. “Well…maybe we’ll find something special for you today.”

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