Page 49 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Uh, thanks,” I tell him. “Are you here for Hot Chocolate Happy Hour?”

He glances around at the room, empty of other people except for the Santa Clauses arranged on the shelves, the windowsills and every conceivable surface in the room. Anabelle chose the Santas for the scavenger hunt and plans on dispersing some of the others, but none of them have been moved yet.

I’m about to make some crack abouthe knows where you’ve been sleeping, but this guy doesn’t seem put off by the Santas. He looks impressed. Hell, he looks awed—the way I felt the first time I visited Roark’s New York City apartment, full of treasures, when I was a kid so poor I couldn’t afford to use a gumball machine on my birthday.

This is the kind of guy we need more of at the inn.

His gaze returns to mine and he nods. “Yeah, I’m here to see Anabelle.”

“I don’t think she’s coming down,” I say, thinking about how pale she looked after the electrician left. “She’s not feeling well, so she asked me to help out by running happy hour.”

This guy looks like I just kicked him in the nuts.

He sure doesn’t give off an inspector vibe. There are no hard edges to him, nothing that speaks of authority.

Is he another of Anabelle’s admirers?

I can’t say I blame him, but despite having immediately recognized the worth of that tea towel, he seems new to this space. I can tell by the way he’s sizing it up.

Finally, his gaze rests back on me. “Are you Weston?”

He says it with the thread of contempt the man deserves, and surprised laughter gushes from me. “No. I’m just a guest here at the inn, but I was friendly with Grandma Edith. I’m Ryan.”

“Ryan Reynolds?”

I laugh harder, because I’ll be damned, word sure does get around. “Sure.” I put out my hand, and he shakes it, his palm slightly damp.

“Joseph.”

It’s a familiar name, but I can’t place it.

There’s still something nervous about the guy, like he might turn around and run at the slightest sound or motion.

“How do you know Anabelle?” I ask.

“She’s one of my best friends,” he says, which sends my eyebrows up. Not because I don’t believe men and women can be friends, but because he’s clearly never met the man she dated for over a year. Anabelle and I have also spent a lot of time together this week—more time than I’ve spent with most of the women I dated for multiple weeks—and she never once mentioned a Joseph.

I clear my throat. “Uh…you’re not some kind of stalker, are you?”

The look of offense on his face is real enough, but it doesn’t mean he’s innocent. I doubt anyone would be pleased at being called a stalker.

“Of course not.” He tugs at the hem of his fluffy coat. “Anabelle and I…we met online.”

“Like online dating?”

Jealousy throbs through me, making me crack my knuckles, but it doesn’t track. I can’t imagine her setting up an online dating profile, when she can barely bring herself to talk to strangers. Besides, she only broke up with Weston a few days ago, and his shitty behavior probably didn’t make her want to rush back into dating.

Another thing I should remember.

But Joseph shakes his head, thank God. “Chat rooms.” A sigh seeps out of him. “We’re both…” He gestures around the room. “…collectors. She outbid me on that towel. That’s how I know how much it’s worth.”

“Ah, so you have a weird room of Santa Clauses too.”

He gives me a withering look. “Anabelle’s collection has been written up in—”

“House & Garden, she told me. Look. She’s not really in a good place right now. It’s been a hard day. Do you want me to let her know you’re here?”

He glances at the carpet-lined staircase, visible through the open doors, and then shakes his head. “Not if she’s having a bad day. I don’t want to give her more bad news.”

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