Page 99 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“I don’t care if it’s a good idea,” he says firmly, his jaw flexing. “I’m not going to let him have you followed. That’s bullshit. Have you heard from that inspector?”

“No, not yet.”

“Email him in the morning. Something’s off. It doesn’t make sense that he’d look at everything and not comment on the wiring. I think we need to start locking the front door. We can give all the guests a key.” He pauses. “And the windows. That dude took a real big interest in the windows. We need new locks for them.”

“Okay.” My heart is thumping faster now. I don’t like thinking about the inspector, but I’m more afraid for Ryan. I don’t want him to go talk to Weston. Weston could hurt him or get him arrested or—

“Pleasedon’t go talk to Weston,” I say, my voice coming out tinny and strange. “Please.”

I can see him working his jaw again in the mirror.

“Don’t you think that’s what he wants?” I ask. “He must know we’ve been…spending time together, and he wants to make you angry. He’s hoping you’ll react physically so he can have you arrested.”

“I don’t care,” he says again. “I can’t let—”

“Go with Jeremy. Or Joe.Pleasedon’t go alone.”

“I’ll go with you,” Joe says. “It’s the least I can do after running from the stampede.”

Ryan is quiet for a moment, and then he reaches into the back seat and takes my hand. “Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s get you home.”

We’re quiet for the rest of the drive, but Ryan turns on the 24–7 Christmas station, saying he needs to live, eat, and breathe the role of Santa to prepare for the weekend crush at the store.

I barely manage a smile, and Joe’s quiet too, all of us consumed by worry.

When we get home, Joe heads upstairs, saying he has a lot of reflection to do as to why he let fear overpower him. I’m guessing he’s going up to playAnimal Crossing, but I need quiet time too, so I don’t call him on it.

Ryan and I walk into the parlor in silent agreement. The tree’s brightly colored lights soothe something inside of me. Everything looks as it should. Nothing here has been broken, though my sense of safety has been shaken like a snow globe.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” he says.

I look up at him, holding his eyes—the darker flecks rising to prominence today. “Then you know exactly how I feel.”

He stops walking in front of my grandmother’s photo, and I study it with him, feeling a swell of grief, of missing her in a visceral way. I want to peer into her bright, happy eyes and hug her. I want to tell her so many things. I’ll only ever see her in my memories or photos and recorded videos, though. It seemsdeeply unfair, but at least I have some scattered pieces of her left. I have this building too, which always felt like ours.

Ryan heaves a weary sigh. “I feel like I did her dirty. She wanted you to get out of a bad relationship.”

“And I did.” I take his hand.

“That doesn’t mean I get to have you myself.”

“Why not?” I say. “My grandmother must have trusted youimplicitlyif she gave you that ornament. She must have seen the good man you are. And I wouldn’t be so sure that it didn’t occur to her that you and I might get along. She wanted me to find someone who cares about me, someone who sees me as I am, and you do.”

He gathers me up in his arms, his hand finding my hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

A sad laugh escapes me. “Neither do I, Ryan.”

“I’m desperate for you.”

The moment feels surreal. No one’s ever been desperate for me before. I peer up into his warm, beautiful eyes. “Show me.”

He kisses me then—a deep, needy kiss—and I return it in kind, wanting to sink into the way he makes me feel without worrying where it will lead or whether I’m chasing something that will break my heart.

Breaking the kiss, he pulls back and searches my face. “You’re exhausted, and I’m not helping. You probably need some time alone. I’ll bring dinner up for you.”

I lift a hand to trace his lips, fascinated by his face. By my new ability to touch it whenever I’d like—which is so often it will probably shock and possibly repel him. “Will you eat with me?”

“If you want me to.”

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