Page 67 of Left-Hand Larceny

He hesitates. “I have s-several. Two b-black. One blue. A-and one that d-doesn’t need mentioned.”

“Why’s that?” Is it from an ex? Covered in curse words? Santa heads?

“Spags g-gifted it to m-me.”

I put my hands up in surrender. Dicks. I’d bet my degree it’s covered in dicks.

I snort. “So black and blue. Typical.” I shake my head. “Why are men so afraid of color?”

The corner of his lips tip in a smirk and a thousand winged creatures take flight in my belly.

“B-blue is a c-color.”

“A basic one.”

He gives his best approximation of a shrug while lying on his side. “D-does it help if it’s l-light blue?”

“Sure,” I roll my eyes, “If you’re trying to match the team.”

“Is there another option?”

He’s not wrong. A light blue tie is colorful. It’s more than I expected. Not when he’s a lone man living by himself, fending for himself since he was a preteen.

“Nah, it’s fine. I was going to help you, that’s all.” I grin. “You clearly don’t need it.”

His brow arches. “Are you offering to style me, Jones?”

“Would you let me dress you, Ólaffson?”

He pauses, shifting his muscles under until he’s no longer sideways, but upright. His eyes bore into mine, glinting under the fluorescents. “You’d need to undress me first.”

My face is on fire, lava oozing through my veins and a shudder trips down my spine. This is dangerous. We are dangerous.

“Yes,” I say.

He laughs softly, a low, warm sound that makes the air between us shift. And even though I turn away, back to the piles of brightly colored bands. Even so, I can tell he’s smiling.

He’s easy with me. Playful. Gentle, even when he’s teasing. He makes it easier to breathe in a job that often feels like a tightrope strung over lava. And yet, every time I feel that pull—toward him, toward something real—I remember that if I let myself have him, this, we're going to destroy everything we’ve worked for.

The gala is always a mess. A glittery, self-congratulatory fundraiser for the team with enough celebrity sparkle to make the donors believe they’re part of something elite. This year it’s doubling as a birthday party for Bill, the team owner, my boss’s boss’s boss, and my dad’s old college roommate. Which means more speeches, more cameras, more pressure. Because if anyone is expected to be the picture of perfect deportment, it’s me.

It’s also the kind of event my parents live for. Black tie. Polished smiles. Public obligation wrapped up in cocktails and awkward small talk. Tiny bites of food that couldn’t feed a two-year-old, let alone a ballroom full of professional athletes.

I shouldn’t be this nervous. It’s a gala. A party.

A fundraiser with too many speeches, too many shiny dresses, and this year, my ex will be there.

Mom called this morning from the office to double check I’d RSVP’d while fussing about table arrangements and donorbadges. I half-listened, stirring protein powder into coffee like that would somehow fix my unsettled stomach.

“Oh,” she said, like it only just occurred to her. “Christian will be there. Isn’t that nice?”

My hand froze on the spoon. “Yeah,” I said after a beat. “Great.”

“He said he’s looking forward to seeing you,” she added, her voice light and warm, like it was some cute high school reunion. “I still don’t understand what happened between you two. One day, it was serious, you were living together. We were planning for an engagement, the next… poof. It’ll be so nice to see you two together again.”

I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, gripping the edge of the counter like it might steady me. “We grew apart, Mom.”

It was the easiest lie I knew. Well-practiced. Polished. Harmless.

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