Page 41 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

You’re getting too reliant on him, a voice in my head whispers.

It is an exceedingly correct voice, because Ryan has only been here for a few days, but I can barely remember what life was like before he showed up one day late. He’s so good to me, toeveryone, and the contrast between him and Weston is profound. It’s impossible to comprehend how I willingly spent so much time with such a small-minded, exacting man, especially after what happened at the restaurant yesterday, followed by the inspector stopping by the house only five hours later.

I get dressed for the day while Saint Nick stalks me. While I would like nothing better than to stay up here and hide away from my problems by pouring myself into crafting, I can’t abandon my guests or the B&B. I need to face my problems before they turn into a giant and swallow me up.

So I head downstairs to check in with Cynthia, who will have finished breakfast service but should probably still be here.

To my astonishment, the dining room is not empty when I come down. Enoch and Grace are still sitting in front of half-finished plates of pancakes, Ryan eating across from them, and Lauryn, the single mom who’s staying in Room F, is talking animatedly to Cynthia while her son sketches in his book.

My heart grows in my chest. This room was always a hive of activity and fun when my grandmother was alive. She knew how to bring people together. I never have. Scenes like this—so happy and alive with joy—have always drawn me in, but I feel like a moth flirting with flames. If I went in there, the fun would probably die. People would leave. The room would be empty within five minutes.

So I stand by the door, frozen, until Ryan looks up. His eyes light up when he sees me. “There she is!”

Cynthia drops her fork and gets up. “Oh, thank Chr—” Her gaze drops to the little boy. “Thank goodness. You’re always on time for breakfast, and todayRyancame down before you. I figured you’d taken a knock to the head or something.”

“Sorry,” I say, stepping inside the room. “I didn’t sleep well.”

Ryan gets to his feet too. “I’m going to go get you some coffee and breakfast. You eat pancakes, right? What am I talking about, everyone likes pancakes.”

“He’s making them in fun shapes,” the little boy says, looking up with a shy smile. He and his mother have been here for four days, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him speak. “I got a Santa hat.”

Ryan lifts a finger dramatically to his lips. “He doesn’t just know when you’re sleeping, Ben. He also knows when you’re telling people’s secrets.”

He winks and claps the little boy on the back as if they’re best buddies, and even though what he said would have scared me silent when I was a kid, the boy beams at him—and then atme.

“What are you going to ask for, Miss Anabelle?” Ben asks.

“For Christmas or as a pancake?” I reply.

“For your pancake.”

I glance at Ryan. His hair is wet from the shower, and the sleeves of his henley shirt are shoved to his elbows, showing offhis muscular forearms. There’s a finely detailed tattoo on one of them—a fox made of flames. My mouth goes dry.

“Uh. I want Rudolph.”

Ryan grins at me, his eyes sunbursts of color. “Challenge accepted.”

He heads out the door, cupping my shoulder with his hand as he passes me, and leaves me with the memory of his warm touch and his scent—pancakes and Old Spice.

Cynthia waves me over, and even though I’m still in a bit of a daze, I take two steps toward her before I stop.

My heart pounds fast in my chest as I regard the guests. I’ve decided to do something…unexpected…but it feels right. Okay, in this precise moment, it feels wrong. Surprisingly, though, I want to persist. So I clear my throat and say, “Uh, everyone, if I could have just a few seconds of your time.”

Cynthia’s eyes practically bug out, because I almost never speak directly with the guests unless it’s check-in or checkout or one of them comes to me with a question.

I feel all of them looking at me, Enoch and Grace, Lauryn and her son.

I clear my throat again, then say, “I’m rebranding the B&B. It’s going to be Christmas-themed.”

“Like the pancakes!” the little boy says excitedly. “Mr. Ryan said I could have any Christmas shape I wanted. I was going to ask for a sleigh, but Mom said that would be rude, so I picked something simple.”

I grin at him. “Like the pancakes. Except I think Mr. Ryan probably would have enjoyed the challenge. But I wanted to tell you all that I’d love it if you’d submit some ideas for a new name for the inn. I’m going to put a stocking up by the front desk after I finish breakfast, and I welcome you to put your ideas inside.”

Grace says something encouraging that my brain doesn’t fully process, Lauryn smiles at me, and the little boy shoves ahuge bite of pancake into his mouth and speaks through it. “I’m going to put in ten ideas, Mom. I want her to pick mine.”

I sit across from Cynthia, beside Enoch, my heart still beating as fast as a rabbit’s.

“You know,” Cynthia says, leaning toward me. She’s speaking in an undertone that’s probably not enough of an undertone. “You basically just invited everyone to stick a bunch of anonymous dick drawings into your stocking.”

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