Page 94 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“No,” I say. “But a lot of people think I’m childlike, so there’s every possibility I’ll want to buy something.”

“Nothing better than being young at heart,” she says, then blows a bright-pink bubble and winks at me. I’m so taken aback, I nearly trip. “Well, come in, come in. No point in getting frozen.”

As soon as the four of us step inside, children start clustering around Ryan, so Ada herds him into the back of the shop to give him instructions.

Joe and I wander around the shelves until we find a plastic throne set up at the rear, in a nook created in the middle of three long, low bookshelves. It’s decorated with fake pine garlands and tiny ornaments. Seeing it makes me overly warm, as I’m certain Ryan is going to lookincrediblysexy in that chair.

Joe gives me a wry look. “Do you feel like we just dropped our kid off for his first day of school?”

“No,” I say with a sigh. “That’s not what I feel like at all, but Iamworried. He hasn’t been getting a lot of callbacks, and I think it’ll shake his confidence if this doesn’t work out.”

A sigh gusts out of him. “I don’t think anything could shake his confidence.”

I can understand why he thinks so—Ryan oozes confidence in everything he does. He wears his clothes confidently, works out confidently, cooks confidently, and talks confidently. But that doesn’t mean he’s never anxious. His anxiety is buried deep inside.

Children crowd around the throne as the time approaches, a few parents gathered behind them, and then Christmas music starts playing over the shop’s loudspeakers. Anticipation tingles in my fingers and toes. I’m excited and nervous, and it’s all a bit much. I’ll probably need to go upstairs and reset after we get home, even though it’ll only be early evening.

“This is it,” Joe whispers to me, reaching for my hand and pressing it lightly before releasing it. “It’s the big show.”

Ryan emerges from around a corner, and a little girl calls out, “That’s Santa!”

I beam at him, because he looks impossibly handsome, even though I can tell Ada shoved another pillow under his shirt. This costume is much better than the other, the beard fuller, andalthough it’s obvious he’s no old man, he will at least not be in danger of ruining anyone’s childhood today.

Ryan grins back at me and then winks, and again, the butterflies in my stomach best the snakes. Then he launches into a spirited, “Ho ho ho!”

“Still sexy,” Joe mutters beside me, and he is entirely correct. But the children don’t seem to care. They’re so eager to get to Ryan, they’re practically tripping over each other’s feet.

Even though I’m overwhelmed, I sense a chance to restore order, so I help the kids line up as the first child approaches Ryan. Then I step back and watch him while children whisper their heart’s wishes to him and their mothers eagerly take his photograph. My heart grows several sizes in my chest.

He’sgoodat this.

He may not look like Santa or act like Santa, but he’s effortlessly charming, so very Ryan, and I start to think the afternoon is going well enough that he will certainly be given the job.

Until a little boy rips off his beard and screams.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

RYAN

Well, shit. My face stings from the ripped adhesive.

“You’re not Santa,” the little boy shouts, holding my torn-off beard up in the air and waving it around. “You sit on a throne of lies.”

“Yeah, kid, we’ve all seenElf.” All of the kids are staring at me, and half of them are pointing and crying. I’m guessing I should do something about that. It took Ada, who is surprisingly good on her feet, about five seconds to get on the scene. But she stopped a few feet away from me. She has her arms crossed over her chest, which I take to mean she’s letting me handle this.

Another test.

Anabelle and Joe are watching too, Anabelle wearing her scared-deer look. I want to pass Ada’s test if only for her. I’m going to feel like a real chump if she sees me blow this opportunity, same as I blew my interview for shoveling horse shit the other day.

The boy who assaulted my fake beard throws it at the crowd, and a little girl screams as if she’s being murdered when it lands on her.

“Santa’s beard is stuck to me. Santa’s beard is stuck to me!”

A middle-aged woman with a high bun runs forward to intercept her, and the other kids look like they’re about to riot. One of them, a little boy, charges forward and rubs his sticky, peppermint-scented palm all over my face. “He has scratchy brown hair on his chin like my dad,” he shouts to the others, backing away with a look of horror. “And he’s only kinda old, not really old like he should be. I think it’s a wig too.”

“It is!” shouts the boy who yanked my beard. “I saw the stitches!”

“I know a future stampede when I see one,” Joe shouts. “Run away from those kids, Ryan! Run while you still can.” He’s backing up, and he bumps into a shelf of baby dolls. One of them drops and starts wailing, and he swears and takes off, leaving Anabelle behind. She’s still standing there, staring at me with those big eyes, when a little girl calls out, “Ryan? Who’s Ryan?”

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