Page 6 of Jasper

My foster parents always told us to listen to our gut when it came to our marks, but apparently, listening isn’t my strong suit.

3

JASPER

The little bell above the door chimes as I push into the café, the familiar scent of roasted beans and sweet pastries meeting me as soon as I step inside.

The place is buzzing, but mostly with the morning crowd of well-dressed businesspeople headed to work. The shop is located in the heart of downtown Bend, an area of luxury, where every shop feels like a fancy boutique. Normally a fancy-ass café like this one wouldn’t be anywhere I’d step foot in but surprisingly, the coffee is strong and delicious, and it’s close to home.

Besides, the nice thing about Bend is that while there is a lot of wealth in this town, there are also a lot of down-to-earth adventure seekers who moved here for all the outdoor activities the area has to offer. It creates a good community.

A couple of people sit at small tables, either scrolling on their phones or pretending to read newspapers. I order my usual—a dark roast, black—and find a corner seat where I can watch the room without being too obvious.

I settle into the worn leather armchair, take a long, much-needed sip of the bitter brew, and let my shoulders relax for the first time since I crawled out of bed this morning.

Then the bathroom door opens, and my attention snaps to the woman emerging from it.

She’s tiny—barely five feet—and I immediately notice how underdressed she is for a day this cold. Just a thin, oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, exposing smooth, pale skin. Leggings that look threadbare and faded and worn Converse with no socks that I can see. Her pastel-pink hair is in a wild ponytail that bounces happily with each step she takes. Dark smudges under her wide blue eyes make her look exactly how I feel. Tired. And the way she wraps her arms around herself tells me she’s cold. I don’t like it.

She stops, eyes scanning the shop with a wariness that makes my instincts prick. It’s not fear. No. She’s looking for something. As if she’s assessing her options, like a stray cat looking for the safest route through unfamiliar territory.

That’s when I notice the man she zeros in on. Tall, well-dressed, probably on his way to some important business meeting. He’s talking to the barista, but not very nicely. In fact, he’s being a bit of a dick to her about his latte not being right.

My attention goes back to her as she smooths her sweatshirt, squares her shoulders, and moves toward him with a hesitant, almost clumsy step.

I frown, wondering what she’s doing, but the second she reaches him, it all makes sense. She stumbles slightly, bumping into his arm.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she exclaims, voice bright and sweet, a disarming smile lighting up her face.

The man waves her off, clearly more annoyed than concerned. She mutters another quick apology, patting his arm as if to reassure him, then slips past him toward the counter.

And just like that, I see it—a glint of silver in her hand before she slides it smoothly into her pocket. The man doesn’t even notice that his watch is gone.

I raise a brow, fighting back a smirk. Clever girl. Impressive.

She steps up to the counter, orders something I can’t hear, and waits with her hands stuffed into her pockets. She doesn’t even glance back at the businessman, who’s now storming out of the shop like he’s someone special.

I sip my coffee, my curiosity growing, and watch as she spots her next mark. A guy in a tailored coat about to enter the shop, cutting off a woman with a baby in her arms who must not have been moving fast enough for him. When he steps inside, he doesn’t even hold the door for the woman who is clearly struggling with her arms full. What is it with these assholes this morning?

The little thief moves with the same careful awkwardness, bumping into him just enough to look accidental.

“Sorry!” she chirps, flashing that same innocent smile. He glances at her, then does a double-take as she offers another quick pat on his shoulder as she steadies herself.

She’s charming. Sweet. Adorable. Innocent-looking. That pastel-pink hair and those blue eyes only add to her sweetness. If only this asshole knew he was getting played.

This time, I catch the flash of leather—a wallet—disappearing into her pocket. It takes her less than a second to pull out a few bills, fold them neatly into her palm, and then slip the wallet back into his coat pocket as she offers one more sugary apology before backing away.

Damn. I’ve seen a lot of sleight-of-hand in my time, but that was spectacular. Girl’s got skills. Skills that tell me this isn’t her first time doing this sort of thing.

She doesn’t linger. Doesn’t make eye contact. Just slips back to the counter and waits for her drink like any normal customer. I take another sip, fighting back a grin. I shouldn’t be impressed. I definitely shouldn’t be interested. But there’s something about that quick smile, that sparkle of innocence in her eyes, that’s caught my attention.

And then I realize she’s looking right at me.

I almost laugh when I see the determination settle on her face. She’s going to try me next. With each second that passes, I like her more and more. Even if she is about to try to jack me.

All right, Little Thief. Let’s see how brave you are.

Just as she’s about to reach me, I abruptly stand to my full height, towering over her. Her eyes widen a fraction. She must not have realized how tall I am from my seated position. I lean down slowly, just enough to make sure she feels every inch of difference between us.

---