Page 27 of Left-Hand Larceny

“Y-yeah. I’ll think about it,” I say, my heart rate picking up again, and I mean it.

“You do that,” Quinn says, her tone light and teasing. She pats the curve of my arm before turning to walk back toward the group. Even from here, I can see Erik’s face light up as she approaches.

I’m still trying to process the exchange as my eyes slip back to Sadie.

She’s alone now, smiling as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My gaze lingers, and I wonder if she can feel it. The weight of my eyes on the smooth skin of her cheek. Maybe she does, because she looks up and smiles, turning her whole body as she closes the distance between us. I can’t help but smile back.

Maybe things aren’t as bad as I thought. Maybe there’s hope for me to find my way through this. One awkward conversation at a time.

Ragnar is still sitting on the dilapidated picnic table with Quinn when I decide it’s time to take pity on him. The fading evening light catches on his hair like molten copper. Still sitting. Like he’s moved an inch. Like I didn’t leave him right there in that exact spot, clutching a bag of fruit with a slightly panicked look in his eyes. And then I sent my friend over to talk to him. He’s holding the paper bag of apples like it might spontaneously combust if he grips it too hard. His shoulders hunched the same way they do whenever he’s not in goal. Like he’s trying to disappear in plain sight. It’s kind of adorable.

And kind of heartbreaking. Poor guy.

I really threw him in the deep end today, but I think he’s doing great.

I tug at the scarf around my neck. I’m drowning in sweat. It’s dripping down my temples, but I’m just stubborn enough to ride it out. For the aesthetic. I’m practiced at that.

This sweater is one of my favorites and it sits just off my shoulders, so at least I get a tiny waft of air when I fiddle with my scarf. Ragnar was right. This was a dumb outfit choice. I went for looks over function. A shit choice.

I catch the hint of movement out of the corner of my eye—Quinn’s hand is on Ragnar’s arm—and I turn away before they catch me staring. She slides off the table, clearly ending theirconversation, and I tell myself I’ll give them a few minutes to wrap things up so they don’t know I’ve been watching their every move. It’s not like we’re at the zoo. They aren’t animals on display. I count to thirty Mississippis to keep myself distracted. When I chance another glance, he’s alone and I swear it feels like he’s touching me, slipping the backs of his fingers down my cheek, and when I look up,our eyes lock.

I don’t remember giving my feet the conscious command to close the distance between us. I do know I will remember the way his eyes darkened at my approach until the day they scatter my ashes to the wind.

“Hey,” I say when I reach him.

Itouch Ragnar’s elbow. The hair there is springy under my fingers. His arm muscles solid beneath my hand, and even though he’s a furnace in this weather, and I’m already melting, I step even closer..

His eyes dart to my hand and then spring back to meet mine. The icy blue flickering over my face like he’s checking for…something. I give him a reassuring smile.

“How are you doing?”

I don’t wait for his response, instead cataloging the lack of tension in his shoulders, the small curve of his mouth. He seems wholly unharmed. I bite my lips to hide my smile.

“Y-your f-f-friend is n-ice.” He pins me with his stare and something hot bubbles in my gut as his lips quirk. “Even if y-you s-s-sent her.”

“You make it sound like a covert mission.” I nudge his shoulder with mine.

“W-was it n-n-not?”

I wince. Caught. He blinks slowly, like an owl, and I have to turn my eyes on the knobby trees to fix the weird catch behind my breastbone.

“Okay, yes. I did. But in my defense,” I lift my hands, palms up, “I thought you might appreciate someone easy to talk to. Quinn’s nice. Not scary. Barely even judgmental.” Lies. Quinn is one of the best women I know.

“I heard that,” she calls from across the field.

I can’t resist yelling back, “I meant you to!”

Ragnar's hands ball into fists at his sides. And oh god, I’ve overstepped. I should have asked him first, should have laid some ground rules. Instead, I made dumb assumptions and did what I thought was best and now he’ll probably want to be done with me and this situation. If that’s the case, will he ask someone else to help him? Or will I have put him off so much that he’ll suffer in silence, losing his ad revenue and disappointing his little sister? Why didn’t I just stop and ask him?

Not that I think he’d disappoint her, he’d figure something out, but I do believe Ragnar Olaffsson would be the first to blame himself.

“Ragnar.” I wait for him to look at me, readying my apology. And oh!

That is not what I was expecting. Pupils wide and dark despite the scorching sun, lips parted, cheeks stained red. My apology dies on my tongue, strangled. My explanation vanishing into the ether. I swallow the lump in my throat.

“I was worried you’d run off into the trees to live a solitary life among the apples if given the chance.”

“I w-was c-c-considering it,” Ragnar says, lips twitching into a crooked smile. “Seems p-peaceful.”

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