Page 36 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Sure enough, Jeremy Jacobs is following Weston at a short distance, playing “Revenge of the Sith.” A few people start laughing and filming the performance, probably assuming it’s some kind of skit.

“Look at Jeremy getting too big for his britches,” Cynthia says with a laugh. “He won’t stop until Broadway producers are knocking on his door.”

Weston halts in his tracks, swiveling around. But Jeremy steps behind a tree, stowing his trumpet behind his back.

“Who’s doing that?” Weston bellows.

More chuckles break out from all around him.

The second he turns back around and starts walking, Jeremy resumes his dirge.

I glance at Ryan, biting my lip. “Weston’s going to be even more upset after this.”

He takes my hand and gives it a light squeeze, his thumb pressing into a pressure point on my palm, before dropping it.

“We won’t let him hurt you or the B&B,” he vows with purpose. The way people have made sweeping declarations for hundreds or thousands of years.

I want to believe him.

I want to let myself trust him and accept his help.

I also want to take care of the inn myself.

But if I’ve been doing it all wrong, how do I do it right?

CHAPTER TWELVE

RYAN

“Why were you having lunch together?” Anabelle asks, gesturing between me and Cynthia. We’re in the inn, sitting on the sofa in the Santa room. Anabelle’s on one side of me, and Cynthia is on the other. It’s hours before Hot Chocolate Happy Hour, but Anabelle’s sipping some cinnamon whiskey, which Cynthia insists is medicinal. She’s supposed to be back at work, but she told her boss she needed an extra hour or two off to deal with a family emergency.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling a bit like a live wire next to a spark plug. Not just because I want to touch Anabelle. I’m still fantasizing about beating the shit out of Weston for talking to her like that. So I get to my feet and start pacing.

Anabelle tilts her head, studying me as if I’m a fascinating animal at the zoo. I walk faster.

“I interviewed for a historical interpreter job,” I finally answered.

“Youdid?”

“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “They kind of felt the way you do.”

“Your accentwasabysmal.” Cynthia grins at me. “It was the most entertaining thing that’s happened at work since the guys circulated that video of Weston getting his ass handed to him.”

“Too soon,” Anabelle mutters. “And I didn’t mean it like that, Ryan. I just didn’t realize you were looking for a job here.”

I shrug. “I applied for a lot of odd jobs. I need to keep busy. I’m no good at sitting around.”

Cynthia points at the tumbler clutched in Anabelle’s hand. “Bottoms up.”

Anabelle takes a sip, her eyes finding me again. “So you applied for a job, and it didn’t go well?”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” I say with amusement. “A not-so-nice way of putting it would be that I got rejected from a job sweeping up horse shit, so Cynthia and that guy Jeremy took pity on me and offered to take me out to lunch.”

“It seemed like the only kind thing to do,” Cynthia says, giving me a wink.

I laugh, mostly because Cynthia’s full of shit. Not in a bad way, but she’s the kind of woman who flirts with everyone and only means it about two percent of the time. You ask me, she’s interested in getting her hands on Jeremy Jacobs’s trumpet. Unfortunately, based on what she’s told me, he’salsothe kind of person who flirts with everyone, only he means it more like eighty to ninety percent of the time.

I reach the Christmas tree and turn around, pacing back toward the couch, but I stop when I see Anabelle’s pale face. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, and I have an idea of where…

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