Page 52 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Number of times I’ve secretly worn Ryan’s sweater: I’d prefer not to put it into writing.

Number of times I fantasized about crunching into the other end of Ryan’s candy cane so I could kiss him: That’s between me and my broken brain.

I didn’t mean to put on Ryan’s sweater. Again. In fact, I meant to return it days ago. It’s just so comfortable. Wearing it, I feel more comfortable in my own skin. It’s needed after thisafternoon, when yet another stranger told me that my favorite place in the world was showing its wear.

I started working as soon as the electrician left, and the familiarity of crafting has sucked me in, bringing me to that creative space where I can make magic. Except I’m a Christmas witch who can only cast a single spell: making Franken-Santas.

I’m so lost in my work that I barely notice time has gone by or register the knocking on my door.

Saint Nick, who’s been snoozing on a little patch of sunlight on my bed, complains. I glance at the clock and see that it’s six.

I still feel lost to the world around me, but another knock lands on the door, and I remember that Ryan is hosting Hot Chocolate Happy Hour. Again.

It must be him.

A thread of self-recrimination gnaws at me, threatening to cut off my air supply. Part of me fears my father and Weston are right about me, and I’m just not cut out for inn-keeping. The last two days have gone surprisingly well, despite the visits from the plumber and the electrician, but that’s because I’ve had so much help from Ryan and Cynthia.

I set down the Santa I’m working on and pad over to the door, followed by Saint Nick, who sits beside me when I stop to peer through the peephole.

I see Ryan, holding a mug of hot chocolate.

I find myself smiling as I open the door.

Saint Nick weaves around Ryan’s legs and then sits down beside one of his shoes, so apparently their new truce still stands.

“Humping makes the heart grow fonder,” he says with a laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The words slip out before I can capture them and tug them back, and my brain immediately zips into overdrive. “I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he says with a smile, capturing my hand for a moment. His eyes glide over me, clinging to the sweater, and his smile spreads wider. I feel a new awareness of the fabric engulfing me, its heat all around me.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, self-conscious. “I know it’s yours, and I still have every intention to give it back, but it’sverycomfortable. It’s hard for me to find the perfect sweater.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. The sweater looks better on you. But you have a guest downstairs, and I thought maybe you’d want to see him—and also that you should drink this very alcoholic hot chocolate before you do.”

I step back into my room, needing to burrow into its safety, and my little cat rises and joins me. “Is it Weston?’

“Not Weston,” he says, catching my wrist again.

Usually I don’t like being touched by strangers, but his grip is light, his touch surprisingly soothing—and as soon as I stop moving backward, he releases me.

He hands me the chocolate. “Now, bottoms up. I think you definitely need to drink that before we move on to Exhibit B.”

“Exhibit B being the man who’s waiting for me downstairs?” I say with a long exhale. “Is it Santa Claus? An elf?”

“Neither of those, I’m sorry to say, but I think you’ll probably be happy to see him.”

“So it’s definitely not my father, then.”

My father has texted a couple of times since the estate sale, but I haven’t found it in me to message him back, particularly since neither of his texts contained an apology for A) saying I was a fool for not accepting Weston’s proposal, or B) telling Ryan that I’m not normal. He was right, I suppose, but his comment was both cruel and ill-intended.

“No, I would have warned you,” Ryan says.

“I don’t care for surprises,” I point out.

“And I usually like nothing better than ruining surprises, but in this particular situation, I don’t think it’s my place.” He gestures to the cup of hot chocolate. “Why don’t you take a good slug of that, though.”

He’s not wrong. I need it. So I take a gulp—cinnamon and chocolate, delicious—and then set the mug on the dresser.

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