Page 55 of Left-Hand Larceny

“I-isn’t that the d-deal? Y-you did well on y-your last assignment, and n-now I w-work on my s-social skills.”

Also, I think, you looked uncomfortable. I wanted to fix it.

I keep that last part to myself. I’m not sure why my normally comfortable, bubbly, personable Sadie Jones suddenly seems full of self-doubt. I want to pull on the thread of her anxiety. Unravel it like the skeins of yarn Amma uses to crochet. Was it just food? I know Americans have weird relationships with eating, but then again, she seemed off during my ice soak, too. Nervous. Uncomfortable. Like her skin didn’t quite fit right.

She looked the way I typically feel around most people.

Is it me? The two times she’s seemed unsure of herself, I’ve been there.

That would be horrible irony. The only non-family-member that Icantalk to feels uncomfortable around only me? Well, I guess it’s a good thing we agreed I’d keep my feelings for her under lock and key. I can’t imagine her knowing just how into her I am would help in any way, shape, or form.

“Well then,” she grins at me, back to making eye contact. My heart turns over in my chest. “I wasn’t sure if maybe diner food wasn’t on your meal plan.”

Technically, it’s not, although I don’t have any sort of formal one. I have a personal chef, like most of the guys on the team, but it’s not what most people think. She doesn’t live in my home or serve caviar and fresh baked bread, instead she meal preps and stocks my fridge for me and a few of the other guys.

It keeps us from having to worry about adequate nutrition with our busy schedules. With practice around the clock, frequent travel during the season, and the amount of physicalactivity we do, most of us don’t have the time to grocery shop or even cook. Not if we want to eat more than pasta or take out.

I’ll admit I know how to cook very few things. I can boil water for pasta, and follow a clear recipe, but that’s the extent of my skills.Except cocoa. Amma has a meansúkkulaðirecipe, and I made sure to master it.

We burn so many calories on the ice, a single turkey club without mayo—because I don’t like it, not because I can’t or shouldn’t eat it—even from a diner, won’t make a difference. But this conversation isn’t about the French fries, or the club, or the diner. She’s poking fun, using humor to cover up the fact that something made her uncomfortable. I want to press. Tease out the tendrils to find out why the thought of eating in front of someone who is abstaining would make her uncomfortable, but I don’t.

First, because she’s clearly moved on. No need to put us back into awkward territory. Second, because it just might not be something I’ll ever experience. I don’t know if I escaped that fate being a man, or being from Iceland, but Amma’s always been pretty clear. Eat until your belly is full, and eat all different kinds of foods.The more colorful, the better.

Our waitress slides plates onto the table, positioning them all in front of me.

“The f-f-fries are y-yours.” I try for teasing and push the plate toward Sadie. It seems to work. She leans back against the vinyl booth and her nose crinkles with her smile. I like this better. A lot better.

She looks up from under her lashes, honey brown eyes warm, and gestures to the plate, offering me a bite. I shake my head. I ordered them, and the ocean of ketchup, just for her.

“You’ve lived in the U.S. for how long and you don’t like fries?” she teases, bumping my foot lightly under the table.

I let out a low chuckle. “I g-grew up in Iceland. L-lamb.S-skyr.Plokkfiskur.”

“What’splokk—?” She stumbles over the word, the divot between her eyebrows adorable.

“F-fish stew.” Once a meal made with leftover fish, now it’s well known all on its own. Amma adds Gouda cheese over the top of the mashed fish. Heaven. And one of the few things I can handle in the kitchen. “I’ll m-make it for y-y-you someday.”

“I’d like that. It sounds delicious.”

I almost miss her words, maybe because I didn’t expect them. Icelandic food is delicious, but most people have no experience with it. Across from me, Sadie seems one-hundred percent genuine.

“Y-you’re a people p-p-pleaser, Sadie,” I grin.

Sadie freezes, her eyes snapping to mine. “I—what? No!”

I lift a brow. She huffs, then buries her face in her hands, groaning into them. “Okay, I am. But only a little.”

Is there a way to be a ‘little’ bit of a people pleaser? I think you either are or aren’t. Maybe you can be both if you’re in recovery. I think back over my interactions with her. Has Sadie ever told me no? Have I seen her tell anyone no?

A lead weight settles in my gut.

Didn’t she try to back out of that drink after apple picking? That counts, right?

Except I talked her into going, anyway.Fokk.

“No one ever notices.” She scrubs her hands down her face. I bet they don’t. Her smile is a hell of a distraction. “Why are you so good at reading me?”

I shrug, feeling warmth bloom in my chest at the way she looks at me, like she’s not sure whether to scold or hug me. It probably won’t help to tell Sadie that I just notice everything about her. Or as much as is humanly possible.But only her. Justlast week, Vic laughed so hard he fell over when he realized I still hadn’t noticed Tristan’s recent haircut.

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