Page 35 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“You like making trouble for other people, that’s all.”

I gape at him. I’d expected him to be ugly, but he’s never spoken to me like this before.

“You made a public spectacle of us,” he says, sliding his chair in closer and leaning across the table so he doesn’t need to raise his voice. “Several clients emailed me about it yesterday, and even more this morning. I heard from my high school girlfriend. Do you know how embarrassing that is, Belle?”

I sit back. “Then you shouldn’t have made a public proposal.” My throat tightens. “We hadn’t even talked about moving in together, let alone getting married, and you know I hate being the center of attention. This has been a nightmare for me too.”

“Always about you,” he says, shaking his head. “Always about poor little Anabelle. So sensitive. So delicate.”

“You’re being mean.”

He snorts. “And you’re a child.”

“You’re the one who wanted to marry me.”

He narrows his gaze at me. “I’ll give you one chance to fix your mistake, Belle. If you apologize to me, I’ll consider taking you back. But you’re going to need to sell me the B&B.”

“Excuseme?” I say, getting up.

“You heard me.” He doesn’t rise to his feet, doesn’t move. Just looks at me like I’m a misbehaving child and he’s the parent who’s unlucky enough to have to deal with me.

He’s never been this cruel, but he’s looked at me this way before. Every time I can’t do something he thinks I should be able to.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”

I don’t understand why he wants it—it’s like a fixation for him. He’s asked me dozens of times over the past few weeks. At first, I figured it was because he didn’t think I can handle it by myself. Now, Iknowhe thinks that. But that doesn’t explain why he’s so doggedly interested. He told me Comfort Zone is trying to buy up smaller properties to compete with B&Bs like mine, but why does my one little inn matter?

“Why do you want my B&B so badly?” I ask. “You don’t even like it.”

He finally gets to his feet and shoves his sandwich back into the bag. Then he makes a show of grabbing the ham and cheese one and throwing it into the trash can next to him.

“Because you’re mishandling it,” he says tightly. “It looks like a damn tag sale in there. I’ve been trying to tell you nicely that it’s time to clear out your junk.”

I think of my Santa collection, and tears finally begin to well behind my eyes. I wanted to take ownership of the inn, but maybe I was wrong to try. Grandma Edith knew what she was doing, and even though Weston’s a jerk, he’s also right—I don’t.

I’m so focused on not-crying that it takes me a second to see them—Ryan and Cynthia and Jeremy Jacobs approaching Weston.

“Fancy seeing you again,” Ryan says tightly. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Weston flinches and swivels around, his face flushing as soon as he sees Ryan. To me, he says, “You invited your fucking boyfriend to our lunch? Classy, Anabelle.”

“I’m not her boyfriend,” Ryan says, then winks at him. “But thanks for clearing out of the way and giving me a shot.”

A gasp escapes me. I know he probably doesn’t mean it, though. He’s trying to be supportive.

More people have filtered into the patio, and they’re all watching us, even the crossword puzzle ladies. I hear a low murmuring, and my skin prickles from the feeling of their eyes on me. Maybe they’ve seen the video. Maybe they think I’m an awful person…

I take a step toward the door, but Weston grabs my arm. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s deeply, bone-achingly uncomfortable to feel his hand on me after everything he’s done and said.

“If you don’t let me take over that inn, I’m going to help you destroy it,” he hisses.

Ryan firmly pries his hand from me—the relief so profound I almost stagger—and says, “Get out.”

Cynthia, who has been whispering to Jeremy Jacobs, gives me an encouraging smile as Weston sneers, “Gladly,” before he stomps out through the door.

As soon as it closes behind him, Jeremy grins at me and says, “Duty calls,” then dashes over to the table where they left their friends and grabs a carrying case from the floor under the table. My mouth parts in surprise as he pulls out his trumpet and runs out after Weston. Seconds later, I hear “Revenge of the Sith” being trumpeted in the street. The sound isn’t quite as overbearing from a distance.

“We’ve got to see this,” Cynthia says, her eyes shining. She opens the door, gesturing for us to follow. I can feel Ryan’s eyes on me as I numbly do as I’m told. Maybe he can tell that I’m not really there, that I’ve dissociated because this is all too much.

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