Page 72 of Left-Hand Larceny
Her mouth parts on a quick inhale, crinkles forming at the corners of her fathomless eyes. “You didn’t.”
I smooth a hand down the front of my shirt. “I did.”
“Why?”
“I thought the sp-sparkle would m-make you s-smile.”
She does. A small once accompanied by a strangled laugh, the sound short, sharp, but real. Her eyes crinkle slightly. But the laugh trails off into something softer, almost brittle.
“Are you o-okay?” I ask.
Her face shifts. A war of emotion flashes behind her eyes—panic, guilt, weariness.
“I wish…” she shakes her head, slamming her mouth shut. “I wish I were your date.”
It hits me square in the chest, but she keeps talking.
“I know it’s my fault. But my parents are here. And the team owner. And… and I couldn’t… I’m sorry.”
I don’t say anything at first.
Then, carefully, “A-are you embarrassed b-by me?”
She blinks. “What?”
“I’m a-an athlete with a s-s-stutter and n-no degree. You’re in g-graduate school. Your p-parents are doctors. You’re…” I motion vaguely toward her dress. “This.”
“Ragnar,” she says sharply.
“I-it’s ok.” I add quickly. “If it’s t-true, it w-wouldn’t change anything.”
It probably should, but it won’t. Not for me.
Her mouth opens, but no words come. She looks torn. Like there are fifty things she could say and none of them feel safe. After a beat, she turns and slips out of the room.
Gone.
I find a drink I don’t want and trail her through the party. She’s masterful. Flawless. Polished like a gemstone. She talks to everyone—trainers, executives, random women with handbagsthat match their shoes. Her laugh is warm and musical. Her smile is the picture of charm. She even thanks the waiter when he hands her a glass of champagne.
But I can see it. The exhaustion behind her eyes. The stiffness in her shoulders.
She’s playing a part.
I watch her navigate like someone moving through a field of landmines. She keeps her back to the wall. Keeps a drink in her hand. Keeps moving.
And always—always—avoids the same man.
Tall. Dark hair. Too-perfect suit. His smirk that makes my fists twitch. He lingers with her parents. All three look like they were cut from the same cloth. Clinical. Polished. A curated couple with perfect posture and cool smiles.
They don’t look like her. I wonder what that was like, growing up in a house where every mirror reflected something you weren’t. And it’s only the mirror. She’s smart, hardworking, beautiful.
The man follows her like a shadow. Circles. Waits. He moves like someone used to owning the space around him.
Christian, I guess.
The way Sadie stiffens every time he gets close makes something primal in me stir. I set down my glass and make a straight line toward her. If anyone asks, it’s just a dance. A polite moment with a trainer who helped me rebuild everything. My way of thanking her.
She’s not dancing. She’s cornered.
