Page 89 of Left-Hand Larceny
“Do you?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I pretend to study a little ceramic hedgehog on his entryway table. I want one for my windowsill. “Maybe?”
He watches me for another beat, then heads into the kitchen. I follow.
“My sister always liked Öskudagur better.”
“Wait. What’s that?”
“Ash Wednesday. In Iceland, kids dress up and go around to shops singing for candy.”
“That’s adorable.”
“She says she’s too old for it now, but she still keeps the costume box under her bed.”
He opens a door next to the fridge and hauls out the biggest bag of dog food I’ve ever seen. Pouring three measured scoops into a metal bowl. I wonder where this dog is. Shouldn’t he have flattened us at the door? I ask Ragnar, and he shrugs.
“Probably pouting,” he says, and shuts the pantry door.
I follow him through the house. It’s small—three bedrooms, I think—and full of warmth. Wood floors, mismatched furniture, a stack of cookbooks with no apparent order. There’s a wool blanket draped over the back of the couch and a dog toy shaped like a moose on the floor.
Howl comes barreling in the moment Ragnar opens his bedroom door. Big, white, gangly. Full of enthusiasm and absolutely no sense of personal space.
“Oh my God,” I say, kneeling down as he throws himself at me. “You didn’t tell me he was a celestial being.”
Ragnar snorts. “He’s a menace.”
“Howl, be honest,” I coo. “Do you flirt with all the girls your dad brings home?”
Ragnar raises an eyebrow. “You could just ask me, you know.”
I glance up from where I’m buried in fluffy fur. “Fine. Do you bring a lot of girls here?”
“No,” he says simply. “I don’t bring them here. Howl’s not a fan of strangers.”
I look down at the dog practically melting in my lap. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I try not to think too hard about how he didn’t say he doesn’t bring them anywhere. I have no right to be jealous. Not when I’m the one who said no, no, no, and then about-faced to only one-night. Did I expect this man to be celibate? It’s not like he’s brought anyone home since we kissed. Well, anyone but me.
“I should take Howl for a walk,” Ragnar says from the kitchen, filling a water bottle. “Want to come?”
It’s the kind of question that sounds casual. No pressure. Like we didn’t have the best sex of my life last night. Like I didn’t wake up in my bed in his t-shirt after he carried me there.
I should say no. I’m wearing shorts I scrounged from my overnight bag and a T-shirt with a faded festival logo across the chest. I didn’t brush my hair. My glasses are probably smudged. And it’s chilly out. Real Quarry Creek-in-the-morning chilly. The kind that makes you wish for flannel and coffee and a long hug.
But I nod anyway. “Yeah. Sure.”
Because I’m weak. Because I like the way he looks at me and waits for me to respond. Because I want just a little more time before I have to shut the door on the night before.
I’m trying to play it cool, like my legs aren’t goose bumped and my brain isn’t still short-circuiting from waking up tangled in sheets that smelled like him. Like I’m totally fine standing in the front entryway of his home with sleep-creased cheeks, zero caffeine, and a heartbeat that hasn’t calmed down since last night.
Howl’s circling us in happy, tail-thumping figure eights, the leash already clipped to his collar, excited for his walk. I crouch to pet him, but when I stand again, Ragnar’s gaze drops to my feet.
“Your shoe’s untied.”
“Oh,” I say, and bend down, but he’s already lowering himself to his knees right in front of me, and just like that, my brain short-circuits again.
His hands are sure and steady as he picks up the laces of my sneaker, looping and tightening them with a kind of reverent focus that makes my mouth go dry. His head is down, red hair falling forward slightly, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath his sleeves. Like this is just something he does. Like it’s normal.
