Page 72 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

But if I blow town, I’ll miss out on my Santa trial run, and I’ll miss…

Well, shit.

I steal another glance at Anabelle, taking in the way she’s rubbing her bottom lip. I’ve seen her do it half a dozen times. Maybe it’s a stim.

Yeah, I googled “autistic spectrum disorders” last night while Joe was snoring in the bed next to mine. A lot of stupid shit came up, like Anabelle had warned me, but I learned some helpful stuff too. And I can understand why she got her back up about her grandma asking a complete stranger to help her out.

She’d probably be even more pissed if she knew what kind of stranger her grandmother had hit up for help.

Looking back, it blows my mind that Grandma Edith put so much faith in me—that she’d been certain enough that I’d come back to write a note for me, and certain enough of my basic okayness as a person that she’d writethatnote for me. She’d trusted me to be there for the person she loved most in the world.

I don’t just mistrust other people; people usually mistrust me. Hell, my own brother doesn’t believe in me anymore, and I’ve burned so many bridges I might as well be wearing explosive shoes. But Grandma Edith, the woman whose ornament I was sent to steal, trusted me above almost anyone.

The thought makes me feel like a chocolate lava cake exploded in my chest—and also like I want to drop my new friends off at a gas station and speed out of town, because no one should trust me like that.

I’m forcibly ejected from my thoughts when a new song comes on—“All I Want for Christmas.” I groan, but I catch a spark lighting Anabelle’s eye as she peers back at Joe. Suddenly, she’s singing along with Mariah, Joe joining in, and even though this song normally makes me want to gouge my eyes out, I feel her excitement. Just like last night, when she pulled that stuffed cat out of the bag. She shuffled on her feet like she wanted to jump for joy, and over a little thing like that. It does something to me. It makes me want to gift wrap the whole world and set it at her feet.

So I give her another sidelong glance and join in, belting out the lyrics as I drive toward Charlottesville.

Her smile is more blinding than the sun.

We continue the sing-along until we get into town, Joe telling me the directions because “Google Maps always gets it wrong.” I pull up in front of an apartment building that looks like any other—generic white, with windows with black shutters that probably don’t shut.

“Home sweet home?” I ask, glancing at Joe in the rearview mirror as I park the U-Haul.

“It was for a while,” he says, his tone dark.

“You have a better home now,” Anabelle insists.

He has a key and his ex is supposed to be at work, so it should be quick—easy in, easy out. But when we get out of the car to approach the building, I can tell Joe’s not feeling easy about any of it.

I’ve been there before. I may never have fallen in deep with a woman in the past, but it still doesn’t feel great when someone grinds your nuts under their heel.

“Think about all the dank shit you hated about him,” I say, patting him on the back as he leads the way to one of the entrances. There’s one for every four units—two upstairs, two down.

Laughter gusts out of him, and Anabelle shoots me an approving glance as she falls in on the other side. She’s still wearing that adorable red sweater dress. It’s probably not the best choice for moving day, but she looks so damn sweet it’s going to rot my teeth.

“Ryan’s right,” she says. “Craig’s a liar and a cheat, and you’re so much better off without him.”

Joe heaves a sigh, his gaze on the unit, and says, “Thanks, guys. That helps. But let’s get started. I don’t want to be here when Craig gets back from his shift.

Except when we get to the apartment door, Joe’s key doesn’t work. He glances at the apartment number, as if a sudden inability to read is a more likely explanation than that the asshole changed the lock and decided not to say anything. Half a second later, an anemic-looking red-headed guy opens the door. There’s a shit-eating smirk on his face, and judging from Joe’s expression of horror, this is his ex. His look of horror becomes a hundred times worse when a balding guy with dark brown eyes and a green sweater steps in next to Craig and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Dean?” Joe squeaks. “Is that my sweater?”

Goddamn, what a vicious setup. This Craig guy obviously invited his new boyfriend over so he could watch Joe carry his things out to the truck—like some extended and reversed walk of shame.

Joe’s a nice, solid guy. No way does he deserve this.

My buddy looks like he’d like to change his name and relocate to another state where no one knows him; Anabelle looks like she’s about to explode. And while I’d really, really like to see Anabelle put this guy in his place, I do what I do best—I act before I think.

I put my arm around Joe, who stiffens as if I’d just punched him in the kidneys.

“Oh, how embarrassing,” I say. “Joe never would have brought me along if he knew you were home. He was worried about hurting your feelings, weren’t you, honey? But I guess that’s not a problem since you’ve both moved on.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ANABELLE

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