Page 9 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

He’ll probably want to pay you in cash. Accept it, if you will.

Most of all, I hope you will be a friend to yourself, my dear. Your light shines brighter than you know.

With all my love,

Grandma Edith

Did this send me down a fruitless research black hole to try to find out who Ryan Reynolds could be?

Absolutely.

I learned more aboutTwo Guys, A Girl, and a Pizza Placethan I ever wanted to know, and it turns out there are many people named Ryan Reynolds. There’s probably one in every town in the United States. Five in every town in Canada.

I could have opened the mysterious letter, of course, but it would have felt like an affront. Possibly also a federal crime. She wrote his name on it, after all, and asked me to deliver it.

In any case, despite Grandma Edith’s assurance that I could sell the B&B if I wanted to, I’ve kept it open. I had to. Closing it would have been like kicking those boxes full of other people’s beloved treasures. Never. Not on my watch.

To be frank, I’m not very good at running an inn, a fact my parents enjoy pointing out to me every time they see me. I like most people individually, but in groups they can be overwhelming. Loud, demanding, pushy.

My boyfriend, Weston, also enjoys pointing out my inadequacies to me, and has made eleven and a half offers to buy the inn and absorb it into his hotel group, Comfort Zone.

The one-half offer is due to me cutting him off and telling him that I would never kiss him again, ever, if he let the rest of his sales pitch leave his mouth.

There are only two people who support me. One is Cynthia, who worked part-time for my grandmother and now does the same for me. I’m grateful that she makes breakfast for my guests, since I am an appallingly bad cook.

I’ve never understood why. I’m good at following instructions, and do it to the letter, but what I make never turns out the way it’s supposed to. It’s like there’s a magic to cooking that I just don’t possess.

Sometimes I think there’s a magic to life that I just don’t possess, which is why I’ve chosen to find it in Christmas.

The other person who supports me is my good friend Jo, who runs an online Christmas shop for vintage holiday finds: Santa Knows. We met while bidding against each other in an auction, and now we talk multiple times a day, every day. Of course, Weston would say we don’t actually talk every day—we write. But for someone who thinks best in written words, it’s the ideal friendship.

Thinking of Jo makes me think of my little workshop upstairs in my room. A couple of hours of crafting might be exactly what I need. I’m about to get up when the front door creaks and then opens with a gust of cold air, the bell above it ringing.

The man who just stepped inside is objectively handsome, with wavy light-brown hair, hazel eyes that look like sunbursts, and a leather jacket that is…well, cool (although my friend Jo says that calling something cool immediately makes you less cool). He’s carrying a leather duffel bag.

There’s a something look in his eyes as they move over me.

I know it’s Ryan Reynolds.

I know it instantly, in my gut.

CHAPTER FOUR

ANABELLE

Guests with fake names: 1

I feel a wave of sympathy for this tardy stranger. Late or not, he must have cared for my grandmother. I’ll have to share the news with him—a thought that fills my stomach with sick dread.

“Are you Ryan?” I ask.

There’s a look of abject shock on his face, as if he can’t quite believe what’s happening.

Right. I may know who he is, but he has no idea who I am.

I set down Saint Nick and rise from my chair.

“My grandmother told me someone would be coming,” I explain, stepping out from behind the desk. “I’d assumed it wouldn’t be Ryan Reynolds the celebrity.”

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