Page 77 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

I pull back the covers and sheets, smiling at the pattern of candy canes, and then adjust her so she’s covered. I turn to leave, but her hand wraps around my wrist.

“I’m scared, Ryan.”

My heart lodges in my throat, and I get down on my knees beside the bed. Her eyes are glassy, and her hair is loose around her face. She’s so impossibly beautiful.

“You’ve got nothing to be scared of.” I let myself smooth the hair out of her face. “You heard Joe. I’m going to be there. That guy tries to mess with you, and I’m going to make him buy you some new boots. Nice ones.”

Her smile is barely there, but at least it’s a smile. “He better watch out.”

“Damn straight,” I agree. “Because you have friends. Lots of friends. And we’re not going to let anyone hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

She smiles at me, then brushes her hand over my stubbled cheek. “I believe you. Goodnight, Ryan.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I say.

Then I lean in and press my lips to her forehead before I go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Monday, December 8, 17 days until Christmas

Intimacy dreams about Ryan: 2

Near panic attacks: 4

“I’m unwell,” I say to Cynthia. We’re in the kitchen, attending to the dishes, while Ryan, Jeremy, and Joe hang out in the breakfast room. Cynthia suggested it was rather sexist for the men to relax while we attended to the work, but I insisted. Not because I believe women should do the dishes; rather, I need the normalcy of our daily routine to ground me. Even if everything is already topsy-turvy since Monday is Cynthia’s usual day off.

“You should eat. Jeremy’s already had three cinnamon rolls, and he’s not even a guest here.” She doesn’t sound annoyed about it, though.

“It was nice of him to come,” I say tentatively.

“Yeah, he has his moments,” she concedes, handing me a plate, which I position in the dishwasher.

We continue in silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. Mine are mostly bleak. The inspector will come. He’ll find a colony of rats living in the walls, and then the building will need to be knocked down. I’ll have to stand by and watch, consumed by the knowledge that I’ve failed my grandmother.

Or maybe he’ll tell us that there’s black mold, or—

Cynthia wraps her damp hands around my shoulders, pulling me out of my spiral. “Stop. Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop.”

“How did you know?” I ask in shock.

“The look on your face.”

“Can you also tell by the look on my face that I don’t like it when my shirt’s damp?” I say it with a smile, though, because I love Cynthia, and she laughs and pulls them away.

“Now, step back from the dishwasher. I’m going to finish up here. Make sure you think happy thoughts. Why don’t you go pull Ryan into an empty room and make out with him? That would make anyone feel better.”

“It would make me feel more anxious, which is something I definitely don’t need right now.”

“Then go take a shot of whiskey from the parlor.”

“I don’t think the inspector will have an agreeable impression of me if I answer the door smelling of whiskey first thing in the morning.”

She plants a hand on her curvy hip. “Anabelle Whitman. There’s a reason they invented mouthwash.”

I’m fairly certain the reason wasn’t so people could go around drinking whiskey whenever they feel like it. But I leave the kitchen and drift toward the dining room. I stop a few steps form the doorway. Ryan’s sitting with Joe and Jeremy, who’s eating what must be his fourth cinnamon roll over a napkin that is inadequate for the job. Taking it all in, I decide I can’t be in thereright now. Most of the time, I’m not bothered by the sound of people eating, but I’m too keyed up to handle it.

Ryan catches sight of me. I expect him to motion me in. If he does, I’ll have to join them. It would be incredibly rude not to, given they’re all here to support me. But instead he gets to his feet, says something to the other guys, and then leaves the room.

---