Page 48 of Left-Hand Larceny
I can’t hold it in anymore—I burst out laughing, the sound echoing around the cold, empty room.
She peeks at me through her fingers. I wonder if I’ve embarrassed her, but she’s looks more shell-shocked.
I’m still laughing as I say, “The o-offer stands either w-w-way. T-talking. P-p-puzzle. S-s-stress relief.” I grin. “A-anytime. An-anywhere.”
Sadie groans again, sliding down the edge of the metal tub like she wants the ground to swallow her whole. Not that I blame her. This type of interaction, on any other day, with any other person, would send me into a coma, too.
“You’re evil,” she mumbles into the vinyl padding.
I grin wider. “A-at least I’m n-n-not a p-pervert.”
Sadie lifts her head just enough to glare at me. It’s not convincing, not with the way her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile.
“Careful, you could just end up with a purple nerple.” She twists her fingers in the air and I’m not really sure what she’s threatening. Probably some schoolyard type prank. I don’t care. She can do anything she wants to me, and I’d ask for more. On my knees.
I pretend I’m not watching every infinitesimal move she makes as she straightens her glasses and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It fell out of her braid sometime while she was trying to sink through the floor. She has little silver studs climbing the delicate cartilage shell. I want to trace them with my fingers. My tongue.
God, she’s beautiful. Even when she’s wrecked and exhausted and messy.
Especially then.
I don’t know how to explain it, but this Sadie feels real. Like the outgoing, friendly, happy-go-lucky woman isn’t quite her. A mask she puts on, a way to face the world. This vulnerable, uncomfortable, fidgeting woman might just be as off-kilter as I am. And while I hate the idea that she might be upset at the moment, I can’t help but love that we match. She might actually have an anxious, neurotic brain like me. And she’s finally comfortable enough with me to stop hiding.
It makes me want her even more.
I sink back into the ice water with a hiss, the cold bites into my sore muscles. I only have a few more minutes in here or I’ll popsicle. Sadie moves from the bench, but she doesn’t go far. She hovers nearby, fiddling with a towel that doesn’t need folding, pretending not to look at me while absolutely looking at me. I’m used to it, people staring. Hockey fans, sponsors, random strangers.
But Sadie? She watches me differently — like she’s trying not to. Like she can’t help it.
Is the water cold? I feel like I’m on being lit on fire.
I welcome it.
I lean my chin on my arms, pretending I don’t notice. Pretending I’m not cataloging every flicker of her big brown eyes, every fidget of her sparkly pink glasses.
My timer counts down, the silence between us thick and alive. I soak until my teeth chatter, then grit through another few minutes because my body needs it. When the buzzer goes and I finally haul myself out of the tub, water sluices off my body in cold rivulets. Sadie makes a noise—a tiny, strangled sound in the back of her throat—and immediately turns away like she’s giving me privacy. Except I don't want it, privacy. And she still has my full attention when she peeks back at me a second later.
I grab a towel and scrub it over my chest and stomach, pretending not to see the way her gaze drags down my pecs, my abs, the black swim shorts clinging to my hips. Pretending I’m not hyper-aware of the way she swallows hard. The water was icy, but I’m warming up at breakneck pace. Another few seconds and she’ll see I’m just as fascinated with her as she is with me. Possibly even more so.
“You, uh, you probably need another towel,” she mumbles, thrusting one toward me without looking me in the eye.
“Takk,” I thank her, my voice rougher than it should be.
Our fingers brush when I take the terrycloth from her, and a bolt of heat shoots up my arm. She yanks her hand back like I burned her, too.
I can’t help the small grin tugging at my mouth as I towel off, slow and deliberate. We’ve been working together for weeks, months, but it was always strictly clinical. Professional. At least, on her end. Mostly.
This?
This is something else.
I drape the damp towel around my shoulders and glance down to catch her still staring at the ink splashed across myfreckled skin. Does it bother her I don’t have much hair on my chest? Would she prefer me to be more like Robbie?
Sadie steps closer, almost without realizing it. Her fingers twitch like she wants to reach out and trace the ink, but doesn’t dare. She freezes, catching herself, then bustles around grabbing towels, stacking empty ice bags into the trash. She’s moving too fast, like she’s trying to outrun the moment that might have just bloomed between us.
I trail after her, ready to help. Pretending my brain isn’t still stuck in that split second when her lips parted and she looked at me like…like she wanted me too.
The puddles on the floor are mostly gone. My swim trunks cling to my skin, and the towel around my shoulders drips water steadily down my spine. It’s cold. Usually, it takes time to beat the post-bath shivers, but not today. Not with the heat still burning low in my gut. Sadie wipes the last bit of water off the tiles and straightens, shoving the mop back into the supply closet. She lingers there a moment, one hand braced against the doorframe, head bowed.
