Page 27 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I promise myself it’s true. Grandma Edith would have wanted me to do at least that much for him.

CHAPTER NINE

RYAN

Watching Anabelle in her element is something else. It’s hard to look away.

Something awakened inside of her the second we got to the house, a big old colonial with skinny spindles on the porch that look like they’d snap like toothpicks if someone gave them a shove.

She asks a uniformed woman where the Christmas things are being kept, and we’re led into a large, drafty room where several objects sit out on folding plastic tables. There are larger bins beneath them with cardboard labels reading$5.

I watch with fascination as Anabelle starts to methodically go through the items laid out on the first table. She touches each thing worshipfully, sweeping the soft pads of her fingers over it to take in the wear. Her whole being lights up when she picks up a carved wooden Santa Claus that looks no different from at least five others in her collection at the inn. The glow inside of her isn’t like a match but a firework.

She motions me over and, in a hushed undertone that’s so adorable I’m surprised complete strangers aren’t drawn to her, says, “This is one of the real ones, Ryan. What do you notice about it?”

I take a closer look and still find it unremarkable, but I know better than to say so. My gaze catches on the worn paint on the belly, and I remember what she said in the car. “Someone’s been rubbing his bowlful of jelly,” I say.

She grins at me. “With love.”

“Or maybe they just liked the way it felt. I used to have a rabbit’s foot when I was a kid—”

Her nose wrinkles. “Gross.”

“Disgusting,” I agree. “But I loved the way it felt so much that I wore off all the fur.”

“Exactly.” She’s beaming now, approval coming off her in waves, and I feel like I aced a test for the first time in my life. Then she runs her finger across the Santa’s worn belly with that same big smile on her face, and I can almost see the old knickknack through her eyes—the something beautiful seeping out from the wood.

“Can’t you imagine it?” Her voice is low, her words meant just for me. “The little kids rubbing his belly, discussing which cookies they should leave out for him on Christmas?”

I swallow through a dry throat. This woman is something else. Everything about her is unexpected.Special, a voice in my head whispers. But Anabelle can’t be special to me. She may have broken up with her dickwad boyfriend, or close enough, but she’s off-limits. Her grandmother didn’t ask me to get rid of him so I could take his place.

“Do you notice anything about this Santa’s face?” Anabelle asks, glancing at me over her treasure.

I take a closer look. Again, it looks like any other Santa Claus, until I see what she spotted immediately. Grinning, I say, “Looks like he got a nail polish makeover.”

“He wasloved,” she says sadly, and those big deer eyes hook onto something inside of me. When this woman’s looking at me, it’s damn hard to look away.

“Are you going to buy it?”

“I don’t have any other choice,” she says firmly. “Let’s look for other finds.”

She explains that she chooses some things because they’re valuable, others because they were loved, and still others because they can be repurposed into different pieces or used to decorate old trees.

“You’re staring at me. Have I been talking too much?” she asks. Then her eyes widen. “Do I have something on my face?”

I shake my head. “No. No one’s given you a nail polish makeover. It’s just…you’re so into this stuff. I’ve never had anything like that.”

Her mouth parts, then firms. “Don’t worry. You’re going to find your shade of nail polish.”

I laugh. “All right.”

“And I’m going to help you find something real here. Because it’s special to own something someone else loved.” Her gaze turns far-off and dreamy, her eyes as shiny as copper pennies as she adds, “When you love something someone else loved, someone who’s gone or has moved on, it’s like having a beautiful connection with a stranger. You’re doing your part to keep love alive.” She shakes her head as if she thinks she’s just said something stupid, and not the most profound thing I’ve ever heard. “I’m being—”

I catch her hand, feeling a spark blaze into a bonfire in my chest, and her eyes widen. “I truly hope you were about to say something like ‘brilliant,’ ‘amazing,’ or ‘fantastic.’”

She laughs and then presses her small hand to her throat, as if she can’t believe the laughter is coming from her. More heat fills me. I’d like to layer my hand over hers so I can feel her laughter too, so I can feel the vibration in the palm of my hand.

The laughter fades, and she looks at me like she’s seeing down to my soul. “What do you need, Ryan? Where should we start looking?”

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