Page 67 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Again, I have trouble consciously upsetting people, my father being one of them. He’s my father. But I firmed my chin and said, “No. She left me the inn, so if it is hidden inside of the inn, then it’s mine. And if I find it, I won’t be selling it.”

He went red in the face and started in on me, calling me ungrateful and spoiled, but before he got too far, my mother shocked both of us by saying, “Oh, for the love of God, shut up.”

I doubt she said it to stand up for me, since she’s never bothered. My guess is that she is legitimately tired of hearing about the ornament. But it felt good nevertheless.

Still, I’m absolutely exhausted when I arrive back at the B&B. I expect quiet, but there’s a wave of laughter and conversation emanating from the parlor. I check my watch again. It’s still 6:30. Well, 6:31. Hot Chocolate Happy Hour hasnevergone past 6.

I glance at the stairs, weighing my options. Part of me is desperate to collapse and let the stress seep away while I’m asleep. But Ryan and/or Joe must be in there doing something, and I need to know what.

So I turn toward the parlor, my heart thumping an uneasy beat, because this is unexpected, and so many things have been unexpected over the last few weeks.

But unexpected doesn’t cover what I find when I peer around the corner into the parlor.

Santa is drinking from a snifter, laughing with Enoch, Grace, and Lauryn, while Ben draws pictures in a book on the coffee table.

The parlor is full of laughter and merriment for the first time since my grandmother died—the same way the dining room was on Thursday morning. It’s only then that I realize what probably would have been incredibly obvious to anyone else. It’sRyandressed in that Santa suit, with a ridiculous pillow in his shirt that does nothing to hide his solid build. Red’s a good color onhim. Ryan, with his rumbling laugh and easy ways and perfectly symmetrical eyebrows. Ryan, who has drawn these people to him and made them enjoy themselves.

A strange feeling tears through me. I’m happy that the B&B is a happy place again, and I’m jealous that it’s not because of me. I got along with everyone well enough yesterday, but I’m carrying my mood with me today. If I walk into that room, they’ll probably all scatter like bugs from an opened box. The fun will shrivel. Similar things have happened to me all my life. I want to be a part of something beautiful, and I ruin it just by being present. By not knowing what to say or when.

I turn to creep up the stairs.

Joe’s probably up there, but I already know in my heart that I won’t knock on the door to Room B. I’ll go alone to my own space and stay there.

But I only make it up one stair before I hear Ryan say my name behind me. I turn, and he’s standing in front of me. The beard is so fake-looking, he might as well have stuck cotton balls on himself, and a laugh erupts from me as I reach out to touch it without meaning to. It’s coarse beneath my fingers.

“You never knew a man could grow a beard so quickly, did you?” he asks, smiling tentatively at me. “They were calling me sir in the fourth grade.”

“It looks like a fourth grader’s art project,” I say, running my hand over the material before I remember myself and tug my fingers away. Leave it to me to throw myself at a man who made it clear he doesn’t want to kiss me. He’s just so touchable. My fingers have taken a liking to him, and they’re slower to catch on than my brain.

“Does that mean you like or dislike it?” he asks softly.

“Both.” I glance behind him, and see that the grown-ups are still talking and the little boy continues to draw in his book. My eyes seek Ryan out and settle on the bridge of his nose beforesliding down to his scar. He’s perplexing to me, and I like to study perplexing things, but I know that’s not the reason I enjoy looking at him. Touching him. Being with him. “They’re having fun,” I observe.

His grin grows wider. “I was showing Joe my new Santa outfit, and Ben saw me on my way down. So I invited him and his mother to come down to happy hour. I’d already picked up some stuff for kids to do. I could never sit still when I was a kid—”

“You still can’t.”

One corner of his mouth lifts higher than the rest, and even though there’s nothing symmetrical about this smile, I decide I like it best. “You’re right. Anyway. Enoch and Grace came in because he wanted to run through The Gingerbread House concept with you, and he heard us laughing.”

“And is there a reason for the Santa outfit?” I ask in wonder.

Did he wear it for me?

Part of me wants to believe it, like the little girl who tried to stay up all night on Christmas Eve, hoping to see a man in a red suit come down the nonoperational chimney. Because surely that would be a sign that there’s real magic in the world.

He jostles his weight between his feet. “I told you I had that interview today.”

He did, and I feel a pang of self-reproach for having forgotten, when I usually never forget anything. “You did.” Then his meaning penetrates. “You interviewed to be Santa Claus?”

“It’s for a toy store. It’s just…something to do.”

“I thought you weren’t into this whole thing.” I wave a hand to encompass my inn, my room of Santa Clauses, and perhaps the entire month of December.

He swallows, his gaze on me. “Maybe I want to understand you and Joe a little better.”

My heart beats faster, because I don’t hear that often. Most people want me to understand them better; they don’t care to understand me.

“Thank you.” My voice is shaky, so I clear it. “And I’m getting you a new suit and beard.”

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