Page 91 of Left-Hand Larceny
We head out onto the sidewalk, the leash taut in Ragnar’s hand as the big white fluff ball trots ahead like he’s the one in charge.
I expected Ragnar to live somewhere colder, quieter, but this street feels alive. Fences draped in orange garlands. Paper bats on windows. Chalk art on driveways. I spot a skeleton holding a dog leash, and the dog skeleton has a tiny red bandana. It’s like stepping into a movie.
“This neighborhood is amazing,” I say.
Ragnar chuckles. “You’re really committed to this Halloween thing.”
“Are you kidding? This is trick-or-treating heaven. Do you get how cool this would be as a kid? Crunchy leaves, sugar highs, glow sticks—it’s a whole vibe.”
He tilts his head. “Did you go trick-or-treating a lot growing up?”
“No,” I say. “My parents weren’t really into holidays. Or pets. Or mess.”
I pause. “Or fun, honestly.”
He gives me a sidelong glance.
“I mean, they’re good people. They just… weren’t into any of the stuff I was. They’re minimalists, like I said. They don’t like clutter or chaos or sticky hands.”
“How’d they like having a kid?”
I stop, mouth agape, as I stare at him.
“Ragnar,” he turns to look at me, eyes wide and innocent. “That was so rude!”
“Was it?” His grin practically splits his face. My cheeks ache from my matching smile.
“I tried to adapt. But I always wanted a dog. Or a hedgehog. Anything really.” I bend down to pick up a perfect red maple leaf, twisting the stem in my fingers to watch it spin.
Ragnar waits for me as Howl sniffs an exposed tree root.
“Once, when I was ten, we found a stray puppy,” I say. “I begged. Full sobs. Offered my allowance. Made a PowerPoint. They said no.”
“Ouch.”
“Right?” I grin. “So maybe when I finally get my own place, I’ll get something ridiculous. Like a parrot. Or a hedgehog in a tiny sweater.”
“Do they make sweaters for hedgehogs?”
I shrug. “No idea, but if they don’t, I’m good with a crochet hook. Hey, new business venture.”
“You’d sell out in minutes,” Ragnar says, like it’s not the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever said out loud.
I really, really like him.
Not just like. Want. Crave. But also… trust. I don’t think I can push those feelings, the heat and attraction, back down where they won’t make a mess. Not after he wrung me out and propped me up the night before. Not when I feel the insidious tendrils of jealousy every time I think about that night in the pub.
“You don’t have to talk to get laid.”
Well, sucks for the other girls. Ragnar talked to me. Even if I had no idea what he said.
Maybe this doesn’t have to be a onetime thing. Maybe it could be a benefits thing. No feelings. Just fun. Right? I try not to trip over my own overthinking.
Our hands brush. Once. Twice. Then a third time.
Now I don’t know what to do with mine, but a fourth bump of our fingers would be weird. Right? Do I put them in my pockets? Swing them? Fold them behind my back like a Victorian orphan?
Before I can spiral, he catches my hand and laces our fingers together.
