Page 78 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Are you okay?” he asks as he reaches me. “You look a little pale. Maybe you should take a shot of whiskey before the inspector gets here.”

“Goodness. You and Cynthia give the same bad advice.”

He grins. “Maybe that means it’s actually good advice.”

“Or you’ll both lead me into depravity.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and he swallows, my eyes tracking his Adam’s apple as it bobs in his throat.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says with a smirk.

He’s teasing me. Or at least I think he’s teasing. He made it very clear the other day that he didn’t think we should kiss again, and if kissing is off the table, then I’m guessing depravity certainly is.

The bell over the front door rings, and I gasp. But the next instant, Ryan’s hand weaves around mine, and the feeling of his strength joining with mine bolsters my ability to walk to the door with him and open it.

The inspector is an unpleasant-looking man with a fierce expression, a full beard, and a work cap. He’s carrying a clipboard and a red pen. Goodness, does it have to be red?

He looks like a man who dislikes children and small animals.

“Hello, and welcome to The Gingerbread House,” I say cheerfully.

He gives me an unimpressed look. “Says The Crooked Quill over the door.”

“It does, yes. We haven’t had a chance to change the sign yet.”

He grunts. “You’ll have to update it on the paperwork.”

Oh, dear. This is already falling apart like a poorly constructed gingerbread house.

“We’re in the process of doing that,” Ryan lies fluidly. I hear footsteps approaching us from behind, followed by a friendly feeling presence behind us. The cavalry has arrived.

The inspector, Sam, glances at them. “Are these your guests, ma’am?”

“No,” I say proudly. “They’re my friends, and they’re all involved in the B&B in some way. We want to support the inspection, because if there’s a problem, we’re going to resolve it.”

He grunts again, still standing outside on the doorstep. Looking past him, I can see tourists wandering the street. It’s cold out today and blustery enough that the red ribbons decorating the street posts and fences are fluttering in the breeze.

The inspector finally steps inside and shuts the door after him. “You don’t need to accompany me. You can go about your business.”

“Yes, but we’re still going to,” Ryan says pleasantly. “Like my associate said, we want to make sure there aren’t any problems.”

We’d discussed the wisdom of telling him up front about the electrician’s upcoming visit, but Ryan had argued it would be best to save it. If he thinks we’re unaware of the electrical problem, perhaps he won’t make a point of finding other issues.

As Sam makes his rounds of the house, pausing to test that the windows aren’t painted shut—a common problem in old homes—and that all the utilities are functional, we trail after him in a silent parade. My pulse is racing; my breath is coming in fast puffs. I’m embarrassed by how afraid I am of this stranger with the beard and the clipboard. But Ryan has not released my hand. Every now and then, he smooths his thumb across my knucklesas if to reassure me that I’m not alone. Warmth spirals through me from those touches.

I’m tempted to climb into his arms and ask him to carry me, but I’m also determined to push through and do this normal thing. If I’m going to be a dual business owner, for both It’s Christmas Again and the inn, I will have to learn to face my discomfort in situations like this.

Sam the Inspector spends anespeciallylong time in the basement, and my earlier worries about mold reassert themselves. I keep a large dehumidifier down here, but what if it stopped working? What if I’ve unintentionally been poisoning my guests?

The inspector doesn’t say a single word, but after what feels like an eternity in the basement, which is somehow both damp and dusty, he heads back up the stairs and brings us into the parlor.

“You’ll need to move those,” he says, pointing to a few of my Santas perched on the window ledges. I’ll have to let go of Ryan to do it, something I haven’t done since Sam arrived—even walking down the stairs, we went together. I glance at him, and he squeezes my hand and releases me.

After I move the Santas, Ryan immediately reclaims my hand, thank goodness. Sam checks the windows—which creak but open—and then peers into the chimney.

“Looking for Santa Claus?” Jeremy quips, earning a shove from Cynthia.

Then, with great ceremony, Sam pronounces he has finished his inspection.

---