Page 29 of Left-Hand Larceny
His lips part like he might say no — like he’s already halfway to declining — so I give him my most hopeful, don’t-make-me-beg face. “It’s part of the party,” I add. “It would mean so much…”
I stop myself because I was about to say to me. It would mean so much to me. But this isn’t my party, this isn’t my birthday, this isn’t even my experience.
“I’ll g-go,” he says quietly. “For you.”
My heart pitches at his words. A quick somersault that leaves me breathless. Why? I’m not sure. Probably the level of trust he’s putting in me. Faith that this will help him. I lean in, shoulder pressing against his, my lips touching the shell of his ear. This close, he smells like sandalwood and soap and apples and man. I try not to shiver.
“No. For you, Ragnar.”
His cheeks turn pink, the blush extending under his beard, and something warm and fond pools in my chest. Before he can protest, I hold my scarf out and loop it around his neck.
“There,” I say, giving the ends a playful tug. “Now you’re officially part of the fall festivities. One of the gang.” Also, I’m melting and he did say he’d hold on to it for me.
He blinks down at the soft yellow fabric draped around his neck, then back up at me. His throat works as he swallows.
“T-t-too hot?”
I grin. “Why do you think I’m done with it? But also, fashion over function, Ólaffson. Get with the program.”
He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. Almost. Even as his hand comes up to stroke the soft cotton.
And when I thread my fingers through his—because why the hell not—he lets me. We walk back toward the others, hand in hand. His palm is warm and rough against mine, his grip careful, like he’s afraid of squeezing too hard. I kind of love that about him. I don’t let go as we join the rest of the group.
I’m still holding Ragnar’s hand when we push through the worn wooden door of Gershwin’s. It sticks a little, like always, the top hinge threatening to give out with every swing. The heavy thud behind us cuts off the last of the stifling afternoon air and replaces it with the scent of old wood, fryer oil, and a faint undercurrent of stale beer. The place isn’t much to look at. It’s like a dive bar and a jazzy speakeasy had a baby, and then that baby got a little weird. There’s an upright piano in the corner with an old sign promising live music Thursdays, even though nobody but Spags has touched it in months. String lights zigzag across the ceiling, half of them burned out, and signed photographs of regulars and old Quarry Creek legends cover the walls. Most of the guys I work with are up there somewhere.
Ragnar’s still wearing my scarf. It’s a ridiculous, mustard-yellow thing I crocheted during my freshman year of college. I was trying out a crafty phase, and it’s a little wonky. Apparently I can’t count—at all—but it has been through a semester abroad in Manchester, a failed road trip to Niagara, food poisoning, two GRE tests, and one nasty break-up. Technically, the breakup itself was fine. It was the relationship that had rotted.
It looks good on him. My scarf. The yellow compliments his copper beard, and while the thing is oversized on me, it fits him perfectly. Like I counted out my chain stitches with him in mind.
“Welcome to Gershwins.” I have to stand on my toes to make sure he can hear me. The bar isn’t deafening, but it’s not quiet either.
“I l-l-like it,” he murmurs, leaning in a little so only I can hear. His accent curls around the words, and I valiantly try to ignore the little tremors it sets loose in my belly. It has to be the heat, or I’m in heat. Something is causing my hormones to whip through me like class five rapids.
“Wait ‘til trivia night,” I tease. “Vic and Spags get obnoxious. Quinn cheats. Tristan leads us into battle like she’s Napoleon or something. It’s a total disaster. Better than reality TV.”
His mouth twitches into something close to a smile, and that feels like a win. Even if I’m positive the man has never watched trashy television in his life.
We’re the last to arrive, again. The others are already gathered around the biggest booth in the back. It’s one of those wraparound monstrosities with cracked vinyl seats and a sticky table that’s been here since prohibition probably. Spags spots us first, raising his hand in a lazy wave, and the rest of them follow suit.
They don’t even let us sit down before the questions start.
“Oh, so it’s a thing now?” Maddie grins as we approach, elbowing her sister. “Pay up.”
“Not a thing,” I say quickly, because I know how this works. Once you let them start, there’s no stopping it. I should have worried more about the team gossip tree. It’s insidious. Do people think women gossip? We have nothing on professional hockey players.
“With matching accessories?” Spags points to the scarf, his brows raised in a way that’s all too knowing.
I snatch my hand back from Ragnar’s like it’s on fire. He glances down at our untangled fingers, then back up at me, one brow lifted, like he can’t figure out what my problem is.
“It was… cold,” I blurt, knowing it was the wrong this to say when six sets of eyes alight with victory. Dammit, I should have just shrugged. Confirm nothing. These bloodhounds now know they’re on to something big.
“It’s seventy-seven degrees,” Tristan deadpans, taking a pull from her beer as she raises one white blonde brow. “Rags is sweating.”
“I made cake,” I add, like that’s a reasonable explanation for anything.
“I think I’ve seen this film before…” Vic singsongs, and the rub of it is, he’s right. I distinctly remember the rumors flying about him and Tristan… rumors they denied until they were blue in the face. And then the photos hit the tabloids.
“Man, if this is just friends, what the hell does dating look like?” The birthday girl adds as the whole table chuckles.
