Page 34 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I’m guessing he’s furious.

I’m guessing he wants to say hurtful things to me.

But I still agreed to meet him. I feel like I owe him that much. I’ve already publicly refused his marriage proposal—I can’t also make our breakup official over text message.

Instead, I’m going to do it over a sandwich at The Bread Shop.

I almost laugh at the thought, but I’m too keyed up. It’s eleven forty-five, and I have to leave by eleven fifty to get to The Bread Shop on time. I can’t focus on anything else, so I’ve been pacing the room. Saint Nick is my little orange shadow, following me everywhere.

I pause, peering at the wall separating my room from Ryan’s, and press my palm to it. I imagine I can feel a heartbeat behind it, but it’s only my mind playing games. Making something of nothing. The wall is plaster and cement and wood, nothing more.

Last night, Ryan took care of Hot Chocolate Happy Hour again, then he placed a tray of food outside my door. He knocked and walked away before I could thank him, the same way he did the first night. Dinner was a bowl of delicious vegetable barley soup with a yeasty roll, and I have no idea how he acquired it. As an adult who does not cook, I’m quite familiar with the takeout offerings around the B&B, and I can’t think of a single local place it could be from. Did he make it himself?

Either way, it was kind.

So kind it nearly made me cry, so I wrote a thank-you message and tucked it under his door, even though it felt much too inadequate. Everything he did for me yesterday was so…kind. There really is no better word for it. It’s like he understands me, or wants to, and it made me realize how little of that I’ve gotten from Weston and my parents. And how much I’ve been missing my grandmother.

Ryan is tardy and confusing, and he missed breakfastagainthis morning, but he’s definitely a caring person.

He is also good-looking.

Verygood-looking.

Last night, I stayed up late working on my Franken-Santa only to discover I’d unintentionally made it look like him. As soon as I realized it, I changed its nose and started adding the beard, but it’ll probably always be my Ryan Santa.

I glance at the clock sitting on the nightstand and sigh, then tug on my coat and grab my purse.

“Be good,” I whisper to Saint Nick, whose response is to stalk toward the wall separating me from Ryan and start scratching it. I should probably put him in the bathroom or his pen, but I hate the feeling of being trapped, and I can’t bring myself to do it to him.

I leave the B&B, feeling my dread mount with every step. When I arrive at The Bread Shop, Weston is waiting for me out front, a broody look on his face. He taps his watch officiously, even though I’m two minutes early.

“I already got our food,” he says in an irritated tone when I’m close enough to hear.

“What did I get?” I ask, even though it hardly matters. My stomach is so topsy-turvy I probably won’t be able to eat anything for a week.

“Ham and cheese.”

I’m a vegetarian. Surely he should know that by now.

I look away. “Well, shall we go sit?”

There’s a covered patio in the back with heaters. We walk in strained silence around the side of the restaurant, where there’s an entrance to the patio, marked with a very strict sign saying only food purchased in the restaurant can be consumed in there. We step inside. It’s early, but several tables have already been claimed. Weston chooses an empty one directly by the door and sits first, so I circle around to sit opposite him—and gasp.

Ryan is sitting at a table near the interior door to the restaurant with Cynthia and a few other colonial performers dressed in their “day clothes.” I recognize one of them as none other than Jeremy Jacobs of the sizable penis. They’re a few tables away, behind a group of elderly ladies who look to be having a crossword puzzle party.

Ryan glances up and startles at the sight of me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes catch on Weston.

“You won’t even look at me?” Weston sneers, snapping his fingers in my face.

I flinch, shifting my gaze to him. His blue eyes are icy as he watches me, his mouth curled slightly at the corner but not in a smile. He’s still wearing his peacoat. “Sorry. I just saw—”

“I was waiting for an apology,” Weston snaps. “But I guess I’ll be waiting for the rest of my life.”

He takes the two sandwiches out of the bag he’s been carrying and plunks the ham and cheese one in front of me. I push it two inches away.

“What, my sandwich isn’t good enough for you either?”

“I’m a vegetarian,” I say hotly, anger burning through some of my nerves. “I’ve been a vegetarian since I was five years old.”

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