Page 33 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Despite your chronic tardiness, I think you might be really nice too,” she says. She’s watching me, her hair a mess now, her lips so pink and soft, and…

And I know who I am, and what I can offer someone like Anabelle: nothing.

I don’t even know what I’m going to do to make a living.

Resigned, I hand her the shopping bag. “Let’s get you inside.”

She gives me a sad smile. “I do have approximately twenty-five text messages to answer. Then I’m baking Christmas cookies for Hot Chocolate Happy Hour. Cynthia already made the dough for me.”

“You’re not going to cut me out of your baking plans, are you?” I tease. “I bake a mean cookie.”

“Nope, sorry.” She hitches the shopping bag more securely over her shoulder. “I only consume kind gingerbread men.”

As if she needed to be any cuter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ANABELLE

Thursday, December 4, 21 days until Christmas

Santas sold: 2

Santas bought: 0, but it’s early yet

Chatroom conversation with Jo

Jo-Ho-Ho: I need proof of life.

Ana-bell: [Selfie drinking hot chocolate.]

Jo-Ho-Ho: Oh, thank God. I was so worried about you. You didn’t respond to the auction link I sent you. I figured you’d need that Rudolph bell. Did you see the fine detailing?

Ana-bell: I did. My checking account says I don’t need it.

Jo-Ho-Ho: I’m dealing with something personal right now. Do you have time to talk?

Ana-bell: Oh my goodness, me too! That’s why I’ve been away from my phone. I’d love that. Can we catch up this afternoon?

Jo-Ho-Ho: Yes.

Jo-Ho-Ho: There’s something I need to tell you. Something big.

My hand lingers over my phone.

I’m not sure I can handle another “big” thing right now. After Ryan and I got back to the inn yesterday afternoon, I really did have over twenty texts on my phone. Several of them were from Weston, all sent after I encountered my father at the estate sale.

I may not be much of a mind reader, but I can certainly identify the causality between events—my father left the estate sale and immediately phoned my ex-boyfriend.

I’ve agreed to get lunch with Weston today, and I’m certain it willnotbe a pleasant outing. Because the other texts I received were from my college roommate, my hairdresser, and the owner of one of the stores that stocks my Franken-Santas.

They’d all seen video footage of me refusing Weston’s marriage proposal and running from him.

They’d all recognized me.

Jeremy Jacobs was definitely not the only person who’d gotten footage, and a couple of people had posted the video on social media, where it got tons of views because A) it’s a proposal-gone-wrong video, and B) Jeremy’s pants are too tight, and his sizable attributes (Cynthia’s words) were on display in his costumes tights. When I saw her this morning, she said hewouldn’t shut up about all of the DMs he’s been getting on social media as a result.

I know very few people; Weston is much more socially connected and thus has probably received dozens more messages about the incident. He is a man who abhors being laughed at, and now several strangers on the internet have seen me reject him in front of a horse.

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