Page 3 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Grandma” led me up the stairs, stopping every three or four steps for a rest, taking so long I wanted to pick her up and carry her to the top for both of our sakes.

When we reached the landing, she led me to a door with a mini holiday wreath attached to it.

“This is it, dear,” she said, breathing heavily.

I opened the door and saw a room like any other, with two beds—both of them too small—a bureau, a desk, and a small Christmas tree set up in the corner.

She was lingering in the doorway, though, like she wanted something, so I nodded toward it. “Nice tree.”

Clearly, I’d read her right, because she glowed in response. “Oh, thank you. My granddaughter, Anabelle, decorated the inn for the holidays. She has a Christmas store, but online, you know. It’s called It’s Christmas Again. She repurposes old Christmas decorations no one wants anymore and makes them new again.”

“Cool,” I said, entering the room and depositing the duffel bag.

Still, the old lady hadn’t budged, so I turned back to face her, feeling a weird prickle of guilt across my skin. Because she wasn’t just little and old and kind of frail. She seemed lonely. I was liking this job less every minute.

“You know,” she said slowly, as if she was about to deliver a chestnut of wisdom, “you have genitals drawn on your face.”

Surprised laughter spilled from me. “Yeah. Someone drew it on my face when I was…asleep. It was in permanent marker, and I haven’t been able to get it off.”

“I’d wondered if you’d drawn it yourself,” she remarked with a smile. The wrinkles around her mouth were deep and there were plenty of them, like she was a person who’d smiled a lot in her life. It made me like her more, and myself less.

“Nah.” I shifted my weight between my legs. “I’m enough of a dickhead that I don’t think I need to announce it with a picture.” I cringed and tried to backpedal. “Sorry for the language, ma’am. Grandma.”

Her smile grew wider. “I’ve been using adult language since before you could toddle on two feet, young man. And I also know a secret for removing permanent marker.”

“No shit,” I said, then gave her my bestoopsface.

“Come on down.” She gave a weary sigh and glanced back at the staircase before taking a weak step toward it.

“Uh, is what you need down there?”

“Yes,” she said with another sigh, “and I’ll admit my legs aren’t what they used to be. Anabelle keeps telling me I need to employ a helper, but I’m sorry to say business hasn’t been brisk lately. My dear granddaughter helped me update the website, but it’s not up and running yet. You’re my only guest until after Christmas.”

Dammit. This was further proof that Roark’s story about the ornament was bullshit. He was just doing this to punish me.Want to put Ryan in his place? Make him steal from a little old woman on Christmas. That’ll teach him.

“I’m going to carry you down the stairs,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m going to carry—”

“My eyes may have given out, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears. The last time a man offered to carry me on a staircase was just after I’d gotten married.”

“I’ll marry you if you insist. But I don’t think carrying needs to come with a lifetime commitment.”

She snorted. “I’m sure you’re a lovely young man. But I have a firm rule against marrying men with genitals drawn on their faces.”

“You’re much too young for me,” I tease, “but if you help me fix the problem with my face, I might stand a chance at charming someone else.”

We left the room together, and I closed the door behind us and turned toward her. I didn’t know shit about carrying people, so I picked her up under the armpits and started walking. She couldn’t weigh much more than my duffel bag. It was cold outside, and not much warmer in here, yet I felt sweat beading at my temples. I couldn’t take something from this woman…

“What on earth are you doing?” she asked, affronted, and the dozens of romance movies I’d been made to watch by a long stream of disappointed women came back to me. Feeling like an idiot, I picked her up like a princess and carried her down the stairs.

She seemed amused by the whole thing and chuckled softly as I set her down at the bottom. Reaching up, she patted me on the cheek. “You’re a good boy.”

It was like she knew she was twisting my heartstrings. I trailed after her like a lost little kid latching on to the first friendly face they see as she walked to her desk by the front door. She took out a few alcohol wipes and, giving me a stern look, started rubbing one of them across my cheek with as little self-consciousness as if she were my mother. Not that my mother would have given a shit about a thing like that. After she finished with one wipe, she assessed my face and then started in with another. “You shouldn’t be drinking that much around friends who’d do a thing like that. Friends like that aren’t much good at all.”

“You’ve got that right,” I muttered as I took the wipes from her.

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