Page 71 of Left-Hand Larceny
Or close enough.
It’s a side room. Something private—maybe a bridal suite or a quiet greenroom for VIP guests. The polished wood floor gleams under my shoes. A navy velvet couch and a small tray of untouched canapes prop up the wall on the far side of the room.
And she’s there.
Sadie.
Alone in front of the single full-length mirror, her reflection caught there like something out of a dream.
Her hair is down—long curls brushing her back—and it shines like obsidian. No pink tonight. The black dress fits like it was made for her, hugging her top half and billowing into a flowing skirt that stops mid-calf. It shines in the light, soft. Like silk or water. . Her heels are ice-pick sharp and narrow. Elegant. Impractical. I want them wrapped around my waist.
She looks like fire wrapped in silk.
And she looks like she’d rather be a million kilometers away.
And I’m standing here like an idiot, staring.
I clear my throat. “I-if you’re t-trying to outshine everyone here, you’ve s-succeeded, Sadie.”
She jumps a little, glancing at me in the mirror, eyes wide. Her shoulders shift slightly. The movement is subtle, but I catch it. A loosening. A breath released.
That’s right, I want to tell her. I’m here. I’ve got you Sadie Jones.
She turns, and I lean against the doorway, giving her a look from head to toe.
“Oh. Hey.” She clutches her small purse like it might shield her. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I d-didn’t mean to s-sneak up on you.” I shove my hands in my pockets so she won’t see them shake. “Though if I h-had, you in this d-d-dress would’ve stopped me d-dead, anyway.”
“You probably say that to all the girls.” Her cheeks flush. She rolls her eyes.
“No,” I say, voice low. “Y-you’re the o-only girl I talk t-to. I’m s-saying it because you l-look like something I’d n-never be brave enough to touch.”
Her lips part slightly, before she presses them together again. She looks down, fiddles with the clasp on her purse. “You clean up okay, too.”
I step closer. One step. I can’t let myself close the gap any more than that. Not right now. “J-just okay?”
“Well,” she says, flicking her eyes back up with a ghost of a smile. “I pictured you in a black-on-black tux with your hair slicked back. Maybe some Bond villain brooding.”
I smirk. “You p-pictured me, huh?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I was curious.”
“M-me too,” I say, softer now. “About what you’d w-wear. Who you’d c-come with. L-leave with.”
That lands. Her smile falters. And my gut twists. There’s something off here. She isn’t fixing her hair, or checking her lipstick. She’s also not wearing what I expected. Not glitter or tulle or a pastel dress that bounces when she walks. If I’m honest, I imagined her in something ethereal, magic. Colorful.
She’s hiding.
And I’m standing here like an idiot, staring.
“A-all black? Are y-you t-trying to match me?”
She arches a brow. “You’re not in black.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “A-apparently I m-missed the memo.”
Her gaze drops to my tie, my vest, flits back to my eyes.
