Chapter 25
THE HEIST
25
I stare at Spotty, mouth agape. “You want us to do what?”
“Steal the leprechaun costume before the big game tomorrow,” he repeats casually as if asking me to grab him a soda.
“Why?”
“I hate the Fighting Irish, and that mascot is creepy, yo.”
Killian jumps in before I can respond. “Dude, that’s insane. How would we even pull that off?”
Spotty leans back in his gaming chair, steepling his fingers like a supervillain. “Yo, easy. There’s an event at the stadium tonight. I can whip up some fake press badges to get you inside.”
My mind reels at the absurdity of it all. “They’ll obviously just use the backup costume,” I argue. “What’s the point?”
“The point,” Spotty says, eyes glinting, “is that it will curse them. Jinx the game, lady.”
Killian and I exchange bewildered looks.
“Jinx?” Killian chimes in, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but why do you hate the Fighting Irish so much?”
Spotty chuckles, but it’s hollow. “Cuz I’m originally from Ann Arbor. My family’s been Michigan fans for generations. When you grow up in that house, hating Notre Dame isn’t a choice, man, it’s a birthright.”
Whoa. Who knew college football hatred could run two thousand dollars deep? I mean, good for us. But stealing the costume… that’s next-level crazy. But we have no choice.
Killian seems to read my mind. “We’ll do it,” he says, locking eyes with me, “but we can’t bring the costume back tonight.”
Spotty nods. “Yo, fine. I won’t have your fake IDs ready until Sunday, anyway. I’ll just watch the local news for reports about the heist.” He grins wickedly.
“Now, let’s get your pictures taken for those press badges.”
He snaps photos of us and swiftly prints out the fake badges. “These should get you into the event at the football stadium,” he says, handing them over alongside a professional video camera and a mic. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Killian replies, pocketing the badges and dropping the camera over his shoulder. I take the microphone. “We’ll be in touch.”
If anyone had told me a week ago that I’d be engaging in a mascot abduction, I would’ve snorted coffee through my nose. But here I am, with Killian, my cowboy turned counterfeit crew member, plotting to purloin a leprechaun. Sabotaging my college team for the greater good.
The sun is sinking low, casting an orange glow over the car dashboard as we drive toward campus. My hands are tight on the wheel, and I can feel Killian’s eyes on me, his presence an oddly grounding force.
“So, Bonnie, what’s the plan?” Killian’s voice is light, but I can hear the undercurrent of pissed-offness. Guess fictional world or not, me dealing with criminals always puts his panties in a bunch.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Well, Clyde, I guess we pretend to be the most enthusiastic sports journalists ever. You got your camera skills ready?”
He laughs, a rich sound that eases the knots in my stomach a bit. “Always. But are you ready to channel your inner Erin Andrews?”
I snort. “More like her bumbling, clueless cousin, twice removed. I wouldn’t know a touchdown from a field goal.”
Killian reaches over, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Just follow my lead. I’ll be the charming cameraman. You be the distractingly beautiful reporter. We’ll be out before they even notice anything’s amiss.”
Did he say distractingly beautiful? I turn to him only to get chided. “Eyes on the road, Spoon.”
The campus looms ahead, the buildings already dark against the twilight sky.
We pull into the parking lot and I take a deep breath.
Killian grins. “Let’s go catch ourselves a leprechaun.”
We head toward the gym, our fake press badges displayed prominently.
“Remember,” I whisper as we approach the security guard, “we’re here for an exclusive interview with the mascot about his pre-game rituals.”
We stride toward the gym entrance as if we have every right to be here. “Press,” I say with a nonchalant wave of our badges to the campus guard at the door.
“Hold up, where do you think you’re going?” The security guard is a fortress, blocking our path with a skeptical frown as he checks his clipboard. “I have nothing about an interview.”
I flash my best smile. “Special feature with the beloved mascot,” I say, voice steady, heart not so much.
The guard eyes us suspiciously, but Killian steps forward, all confidence and easy smiles. “We’re a bit early, I know. But it’s Friday night. We just want to get home after a long week.”
Somehow, it works. The guard’s eyes flick from me to Killian, then back again before he waves us through with a grumble.
Close call.
We slip past him and into the belly of the gym, where the air is stuffy from limited ventilation and smells like rubber. The mascot, in full leprechaun regalia, is taking photos with fans.
Showtime.
Killian slings the camera up and nods at me. I stride over to the mascot, pulling out my best reporter’s voice and the microphone prop Spotty provided that I’m not sure what he uses for. Karaoke night with his thug friends? “Mr. Leprechaun, sir! Your fans are dying to know, tell us about a typical day in the life of a college mascot…”
After bullshitting my way through an endless stream of questions, the mascot is called away to meet with more fans. Checking that no one is looking our way, Killian and I discreetly disappear behind a door opposite to the one we used to enter. While interviewing the guy playing the leprechaun, I asked him where the precious costume was stored, and the guy pointed me in the direction of the locker rooms. Hence where Killian and I are headed right now.
The corridor on this side is mostly dark. I’m nervous again as we don’t have a proper reason to be here, or even a plausible one. I’ve barely had a look down the hall when Killian pulls me into a random storage room. It’s a dark, tiny room filled with sports equipment where there’s barely enough space for us to stand toe to toe.
“What are you doing?” I hiss as Killian clicks the slatted door shut behind us.
His eyes twinkle in the scarce light filtering through the slats, a mischievous glint that I’m starting to recognize. “Hiding,” he whispers back, his breath warm against my ear. “Unless you want to explain to the janitor coming our way why we’re snooping around.”
I hadn’t seen anyone. “You know, for a guy who’s used to the high life, you’re pretty good at slumming it.”
Killian chuckles, shifting a basketball so it doesn’t dig into his back. “I’m full of surprises, Sugar Spoon. Besides,” he adds, his voice lowering, “it’s not the worst thing, being this close to you.”
My heartbeat still drums in my ears, but I scoff playfully, “Focus, Romeo. We’re on a mission.”
“The event is still going. It’ll be at least another half an hour before everyone leaves. How should we kill time while we wait?”
I bite my lip as I think of how to answer that question. We kept the lights off to avoid detection from the outside and Killian’s proximity is already driving me wild, my imagination running rampant with possibilities.
“Well, we could… play a game,” I suggest, trying to keep my tone light.
“What game?”
“How about ‘Two Truths and a Lie’?” I propose, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the flutter in my stomach. “I’ll start. I can’t ride a bike, but I can play the piano. And I’m terrified of clowns.”
“Mmm… That you are terrified of clowns seems like the most easy truth. You don’t have a piano at home, but that doesn’t mean you can’t play. And I find it hard to believe you can’t ride a bike… but you might also have planted that option as a trap?”
He’s so flipping hot when he rationalizes. “But did I?”
“Something so impossible to believe I’d pick it without thinking? You could have. But you said you don’t have a rich family bankrolling you. If you grew up with little money, maybe your parents never got you a bike and you never learned.”
Killian’s deduction hits closer to home than I expect, stinging a little, but also warming me. It’s not just his charm or his looks; it’s this—every word he speaks, every little detail he notices and remembers, only adds to the attraction. I listen, almost bewitched, as he finishes his reasoning.
“So, is the lie the piano or the clowns? Clowns are easily believable and the piano is not as easily unbelievable as the bike, but still less common than clown phobia. And if your parents could never afford a bike, it’d seem odd they could afford piano lessons. I call bullshit on the piano.”
“Almost, cowboy.” My voice is raw. “My parents could never afford to buy me a bike, true. But they also couldn’t afford a babysitter when they had to work a double shift. So I spent countless afternoons and evenings with the old lady living next door to us, and she had a piano. She taught me how to play.”
I wait, heart beating, for Killian’s reply.
He gently pulls a curl and lets it bounce back into shape. “I’ll teach you how to ride a bike if you teach me how to play the piano.”
I love that he didn’t make my confession that I don’t know how to ride a bike awkward. That I just basically told him I grew up in poverty, and he didn’t even flinch. He’s still being himself, still being kind and charming and insanely attractive.
“Don’t all billionaires learn how to play the piano at a young age?”
“I picked up the violin instead.”
“Really?”
“You tell me.” His grin is devastating even in the semi-darkness. “My turn. I can play the violin. I’ve read every book by Jane Austen. And I’ve traveled to all five continents.”
“Uuuh.” I pop my knuckles. “Let’s see. The Jane Austen thing seems like the most obvious lie. But it could also be your booby trap.”
I poke his chest with my index finger.
Grin. “But is it?”
“Let’s see. You were a billionaire until I pulled you into this riches-to-rags reality, so it’d make sense that you’ve traveled to every continent. But it could also be a too-obvious truth. And then there’s the violin.”
“What about the violin?”
“It seems hard to believe, but you also answered me on instinct, saying you could play the violin and then rolled with it, so you didn’t plant it. And I’m pretty sure you’re trying to reverse-psychologize me on the Jane Austen thing, hiding the lie in plain sight. I call bullshit on Jane.”
“Almost, Sugar Spoon. I’ve never been to Africa or Australia.”
So far, the only places I’m sure he’s actually been are Evanston and South Bend, but I don’t point that out. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, reminding him none of his memories are real.
“Me neither.” I don’t know why my words come out on a ragged breath.
“Then we’ll go together one day…”
I deflect. “Let’s hope Spotty is so good at what he does that he can get you a passport.”
“Speaking of Spotty, if Mission Leprechaun is still a go, we should probably steal the darn costume.”
We hear footsteps outside.
“Let’s give it another ten minutes,” I say. “How come you can play the violin?”
He smiles. “I’m a cowboy, Sugar, country fiddle is my jam.”
“Oh, is it?” I mock-scowl. “And don’t think I’m not going to test you on the Jane Austen novels. Which one is your favorite?”
“It’s a hard call between Pride and Prejudice and Northanger Abbey.”
“Not Emma?”
“Oh, please, I loathed Emma.”
“Oh my gosh, me too.” I lean into him. “I don’t think I’ve ever confessed that out loud to anyone.”
“I like that you told me.” His voice is a low whisper that spears right through my heart.
“Do you remember your childhood?” I ask, changing the subject so fast I might get motion sickness.
I can’t properly see his face, but I know he’s squinting. “Not really. I have a general feeling it was bright and happy except for a dark stain under the surface.”
“Uh, that’s probably your character arc. The scar in your past you have to overcome before you can truly heal and love.”
“I can love alright, Sugar.”
I’m not just swooning. I’m puddling. If I didn’t have a supply rack pressing against my back and a book boyfriend to my front, I’d be a puddle on the floor.
“What’s your character scar?” Killian asks in a whisper.
“I don’t know, almost twenty-five years of being single? Dating apps? All the bullshit I had to take over the years from my coupled friends? You pick.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Don’t worry, you have me now.”
Do I? I don’t ask the question aloud.
“You want to play another round of Two Truths and a Lie?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think we have time if we don’t want to be late for dinner at Maggie’s.”
“We could always change games?” His voice sounds suspiciously teasing.
“Oh, yeah? And what would you have in mind?”
Killian’s mouth drops to within a sliver of my ear. “We’ve got time for a round of Seven Minutes in Heaven…”
The tension hangs heavy between us, electric and undeniable. We lean in, so close that our breaths mingle. Just as the air we’re sharing thins to breaking point, someone calls outside, “That was the last one, Joe. Everybody’s gone. I’m gonna close up now.”
A voice in the distance yells a reply, and in response, the first man lets out a resounding burp, effectively killing the magic.
I squish backward as far as the rack at my back will allow me. The realization that I was about to let Killian kiss me is hot in my belly. He stares at me in the semi-darkness of the storage room, his intense eyes promising a rematch.
We wait for another heartbeat before Killian grabs my hand. “Let’s go steal a mascot.”