Page 116 of Left-Hand Larceny
“I mean,” I try, “I probably need to go home to change. I look like I wrestled a snowbank.”
“Or you can wear nothing. Naked Sadie would definitely improve my game,” he says lightly, already moving into the kitchen like he didn’t just lob a flirt grenade into my bloodstream.
“Ragnar,” I squeak.
“Or,” he adds, amused, “I could loan you sweatpants. But your reaction to the first suggestion was better.”
Howl sneezes dramatically, like even he thinks I’m blushing too hard.
Ragnar opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water, tossing one to me.
“I’ve got some laundry to fold and a bit of vacuuming, but please. Stay. You don’t have to help.”
“Wait.” I follow him into the living room. “I’m sorry. Did you say laundry? Vacuuming? Do you scrub your own bathtub?”
He throws a pillow at me. “I’m not incapable.”
“Sorry,” I say, hands up in surrender, even as I plop onto the couch. “I just assumed someone who gets paid to stop flying pucks didn’t also mop his own floors. I know Vic and Spags don’t.”
He smirks, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a laundry basket between us. “I’m not fancy, Vic and Tristan both work long hours, and if you’d ever seen the state of Spags’ apartment… well, you wouldn’t question the house cleaner. ”
“Well, I am completely useless,” I admit, pairing socks and getting it wrong twice. “I used to get in trouble at home for not being organized enough. My mom color-codes her spice rack. I once tried to alphabetize my earrings and cried.”
“How do you alphabetize earrings?”
I crinkle my nose at him.
He hums, folding a towel with slow, neat precision.
“Then I’ll run the vacuum. Or we’ll hire someone. Problem solved.”
“You’re weirdly chill about this.”
“I have a dog who eats socks and a girlfriend who talks to snow. A house cleaner is a small price to pay for that gift.”
Girlfriend.
He says it so casually, like it’s obvious. Like it’s already true. I think it might be.
I smile down at a sad-looking sock bundle and will the burn out of my eyes. He’s perfect. Too perfect. Am I going to fuck this all up?
“Would it help to know that I have a chef?”
I look up, startled at he bumps my shoulder with his. “It’s not possible to be good at everything, Sadie, so why kill yourself trying?”
When we finish the folding, he disappears for a minute and returns with something in his fist. He says nothing as he drops a small, familiar rock into my hand. It’s the one from our first walk. Flat and smooth and completely unremarkable—except now it has googly eyes glued to the front.
I let out a surprised laugh. “You gave it a face?”
He nods. “It needed a name. I’ve been calling it Pebbles.”
“Pebbles?” I can’t wrap my head around what’s happening.
“It’s yours. A pet. For now.”
I snort. “You giving me a trial run before I get a dog?”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You can have him too, but I think your parents would notice the hair.”
