Page 85 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

It must have been criminal, whatever he was mixed up in.

But Grandma Edith trusted him.

Insofar as I can, I trust him too. But I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do now. I don’t think I can process anything else after the day I’ve had. I need time for everything to be sorted into the proper portion of my gray matter.

I press my fingers to my thumb, trying to ground myself. “So you came here to stay with my grandmother, you told her your story, and she gave you this ornament for safekeeping. But why did you comehere, of all places? Was it…was this the place your mother left you?”

“No.”

He obviously doesn’t intend to expand upon that. I could either accept that or throw him out.

I’m not ready to throw him out.

“You know, my father’s been looking for that ornament,” I say, nodding toward the closet.

“I expect he has.”

“The other night, he told me he thinks it’s hidden somewhere in the house,” I say, my voice quavering as I consider what that might mean. “Do you think that’s why Weston wants the inn? Is that what the inspector guy was hoping to find? Although…no, that wouldn’t make sense.”

For one thing, Weston is wealthy. No one would be unhappy to fall into a couple hundred thousand dollars, but he certainly doesn’t require it, and indeed, it wouldn’t make buying the B&B worthwhile to him.

I say as much out loud, and Ryan shakes his head, his lips a firm line. “Maybe. Financial value isn’t the only reason why people want to own something. He might want it just because he doesn’t wantyouto have it. I wouldn’t put it past Weston.”

Nor would I.

“I won’t let him take it from you,” Ryan adds, his voice gruff.

“Iwon’t let him take it,” I correct. “I’m a grown woman perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, rubbing the back of his ear again. “I can clear out my stuff. It won’t take long.”

He came in with a duffel bag. I know he’s from New York, but does he have an apartment there? A house?

“Is that all you have?” I blurt.

He tries to smile. “Grandma Edith didn’t give me any other precious Christmas antiques, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, the duffel bag,” I say through the squeezing sensation in my throat. “Is that all you have? Or do you have an apartment or a house waiting for you?”

“No. I was gone for a month or so, and my roommate assumed I wasn’t coming back. He got rid of my shit.” He looks away. “I’ve got some money tucked away, though. Plenty to pay for my room. I’m not a charity case.”

“I didn’t think you were,” I murmur, “but that’s sosad.” My voice wobbles on the word.

I think about all the stuff I have, tucked into the nooks and crannies of this house. Ornaments and trees and Santa Clauses. Furniture and Tupperware and dishes. Clothes. Everything Ryan has right now fits into a bag.

My stomach is a pit, a black hole.

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t,” I tell him. “But I care about you, and if you’re sad, then I’m sad.”

His expression becomes less severe. “I’m not sad right now.”

“I don’t want you to give me anything. I only want to spend time with you.”

His eyes change. One moment all the darker colors are taking prominence—deep greens and browns—and the next they’re all gold. He takes a step toward me, his powerful body tensing with the simple movement. “Anabelle.”

“I like the way you say my name.”

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