Page 37 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“What did Weston say to you?” I ask, trying not to growl. “We didn’t hear it all.”

She worries her hands, and I grind my molars together as I wait for her to tell me something that’s guaranteed to piss me off.

“I think he threatened me,” she says, her eyes widening. “He wants me to sell him the B&B, and when I told him it was never going to happen, he said he was going to help me run it into the ground.”

Rage charges through me. “I’d like to run him into the ground.”

“Yes, you’re very strong,” Cynthia remarks. “Your accent might have sucked, but you did shovel an impressive quantity of horse shit.”

I sigh and close the distance to the couch, slumping back onto it next to Anabelle. My feet still feel like they have springs in them, but I want to comfort her, and I’ve been told there’s nothing comforting about someone who gives off caged-predator vibes.

Anabelle turns toward me, her arm brushing mine, and I’m suddenly deeply aware of how close she is, how warm. Howsingle.

I clear my throat. “You okay?”

“Oh no, not at all.” She laughs, then hiccups, then says, “But I think I will be. I guess that’s something, isn’t it?”

“It’s everything. Don’t worry about Weston. I meant what I said. We’re not going to let him hurt you.”

“No way,” Cynthia agrees, “and if he tries, I’ll hire Jeremy to follow him around everywhere and play a soundtrack to his life.”

“Maybe we should do that anyway,” I joke. Well. Sort of joke. Let’s be honest, it would be epic to have that douchebag followed around everywhere with a trumpet.

“Jeremy could play the sad violin song every time something bad happens to Weston,” Anabelle says, “and ‘Celebration’ whenever he goes on a date or makes a business deal. The possibilities are endless.” She’s joking around, but I can tell her heart isn’t in it. Hopefully not because part of it still belongs to Weston. I said it myself—sometimes people want what’s not good for them, so I know better than to assume she doesn’t have any remaining feelings for him. Hell, I’ve slept with plenty of women who treated me like a dirty secret, and it didn’t stop me from going back for seconds.

Anabelle shakes her head. “Actually, no, it’s possible he would enjoy the attention.”

“That would make it less fun,” Cynthia agrees, then makes a drinking motion to Anabelle, who smiles as she takes another sip of her whiskey.

“What can we do?” I ask.

Anabelle thinks about it for a second, and I remember that no one has successfully relied on me for anything…

Until I look up and see Grandma Edith’s portrait hanging on the wall. I haven’t let her down, not yet. I may have showed up one day late, but I came. And I brought the ornament back. That’s something I can build on, isn’t it?

“There is something…” She glances between Cynthia and me, and too late, I get the sense that she’s going to ask a question I’ll have a hard time answering. “Do you think the changes I’ve made to the inn are a problem? Please be honest.”

I crack my knuckles, feeling all of the Santas staring at me in accusation. “Yes.”

“Ryan,” Cynthia warns, giving me a look that says I’ve failed in my assigned mission to be cool and agreeable.

“I’m not saying you should get rid of the Santas.” I lift my hands in submission, meeting Anabelle’s eyes. “But it’s confusing. The inn’s called The Crooked Quill, and you don’t mention your Christmas collection in any of the advertising. Maybe you need to go all in. Change the name. The décor. Offer Christmas-themed tours of Williamsburg. Make it a whole thing. Hell, you could even crowdsource the name.” I twist my mouth to the side. “And, you know, maybe spread the Santas out a little so it doesn’t feel like the people who come in here are facing down an army of little red men.”

Cynthia frowns. “I don’t know. I mean, a Christmas B&B at Christmas makes sense, but what about in March when everyone wants to get wasted on green beer?”

“Look at all those Disney adults. They want to live there all the time. There are adults who are like that with Christmas. Like you, Anabelle.”

Her gaze lifts, and I follow it to the portrait of Grandma Edith, feeling a pulse of sympathy in my chest. Shit. She doesn’t want to change what her grandma built, I get it. Well, I don’t really get it. As previously established, the only father figure I ever had was a man who taught me to lean into my worse impulses. So I don’t know what it would be like to have a sweet grandmother who bakes you cookies and tells you you’re a good person.

“I’ll need to give it some thought,” she finally says, wringing her hands. I have the desperate urge to take her hand and start massaging it, but that’s probably me being dumb again.

“Why don’t you go on upstairs,” I say. “I’ll bet that hellcat is looking for you.”

She smiles at me, and it reaches her eyes, thank God. She’s pulling out of the funk Westie put her in.

“Are you sure Saint Nick isn’t looking foryou?” she asks. “He seems fixed on digging a hole through the wall.”

“Then I hope you’ll climb through after him and save me,” I say, then immediately imagine her being in that small room with me.

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