12 | The Casual Thief

yes these are my baby

darlings Avery and Sam,

and I love them endlessly.

_

VERA

_

AFTER MY USUAL SHIFT AT THE BAKERY, I was surprised to see Timothée lingering outside the shop for the first time in a while.

He had a leather sachet hanging off his shoulder, tangled up in the sleeves of his blazer, and another one of his toothpicks dancing around in his mouth. Occasionally he'd turn towards the window, pressing his forehead up against the glass to wave at me while I organized pastries in the display case.

I was more than happy to wave back.

I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't miss having him wait for me, and now that he was finally back, I felt my stomach doing somersaults and attaining perfect scores in the 'Emotional Olympics'—which wasn't a real thing, but it certainly felt like it was. Maybe it was that sense of stability I was talking about a few days ago. I'd developed the habit of holding onto him, and everything felt normal when he was around again.

"Vera," he said, once my shift was over.

"Timothée," I said back.

"Allons-y."

The next thing I knew, he had whisked me away to his University, pushing me down a familiar, dark hallway to get to a familiar room. If I hadn't already been there the day before, I'd be confused as to why the room was hazy with cigarette smoke when I walked in, but vivid images of two strangers with books answer any questions.

The book club.

Which wasn't really a book club at all.

"Vera, this is Sam Brontté and Avery Carelle," Timothée said, tossing his bag on the floor, "otherwise known as the other two idiots who are going to help me take back my inheritance."

The blond, who was apparently Sam, and the brunet, who was Avery, snapped their books closed as soon as I was pushed through the door. My suspicions about this being a real book club were immediately upheld once I heard Timothée explain who they were—idiots, like me, who were in on the plan.

Shrugging aside introductions, I was directed to sit on the couch in the back of the room. I watched with prying eyes, even as I lowered myself onto the cushions. I wasn't sure why I felt so awkward.

"I'll be back," Timothée muttered, waving his hand, "try to be civil, boys."

And before I could ask where he was going, my only source of stability strode out of the room, closing the door behind him. Now I was standing unbalanced in a room full of strangers. This sucked.

It wasn't until one of the men crossed the room, plopping down on the couch with a book in his lap. He held out his hand towards me, a cheeky grin on his face.

"Avery," he said, nodding his head, "sorry for your loss."

I took his hand hesitantly. "Loss?"

"Loss of freedom," he clarified, cocking his head towards the door, "once Timothée drags you in on a heist, you can't get out. That's how it works."

I took note of the boy's English accent, a sort-of proper dialect that made him seem almost a bit snooty with the way he said things. I wondered if he lived here, or if he was here on exchange. I didn't feel like asking.

"Is it really that bad?" I questioned attentively.

Avery shrugged.

"Depends on what you get out of it," he said, "personally, I like it. I get in with the Chalamet heir, get to do a bunch of cool stuff, live my life, and it gives me the chance to get with that daft idiot."

He lifted a limp finger to gesture at the blond across the way from us, who was too busy lighting a cigarette to pay attention to our conversation. So, Sam and Avery were a couple. Or not. Maybe they aren't labeled, but I shouldn't press since it's not my business.

I watched as Sam exhaled a puff of smoke from his lips, his fingers tracing along a tattered copy of a book. Avery called his name a few times, but he didn't look up, so the brunet got up from the couch and plopped down beside him. They exchanged a few inaudible whispers, and soon Sam titled his head to look at me.

There was a spark in his eyes.

Ruffling his hand through Avery's dark hair, he stood from his chair, approaching me with a sort of swagger that reeked of confidence. He was intimidating in a nonchalant way—he didn't care for stature, but still expected it from everyone else—which is why I found myself sitting a little straighter when he lowered himself onto the couch next to me.

"Sam," he said, sticking out his hand, "you're a pretty person, sweetheart, care to tell me your pronouns?"

My eyes lit up. "She, her."

He paused for a second, flicking ash off of his cigarette as he scanned me intently.

"What's your favorite color?" He asked.

"Orange," I answered, although I wasn't sure why it mattered, "it looks really good with blue."

"Favorite song?"

"Words," I shrugged, "by F.R Davis."

"And are you currently looking for a French boyfriend?" He grinned, resting his head in his hands as he grinned at me deviously, "Timothée may have passed you up, but I certainly won't make that mistake."

I flinched, not sure if I should be offended by his casual remark of being rejected by the guy I used to (do) like, or feel complimented. But besides that, I furrowed my brows in confusion, trying to put the pieces together.

"I thought you were with Avery?" I mumbled, eyeing the cigarette in his hand, "he mentioned something about you two being together."

Sam chuckled, "it's a mutual understanding, but it's nothing serious."

"Oh, well thank you for the offer, but I'm not interested."

"Pity," he yawned, getting up from the couch. He cupped his left hand around his mouth, angling his head towards the door. "Hey Chalamet! Come get your girlfriend before I start crying over being rejected."

Timothée, who was thankfully not in the room, didn't hear that. However, Avery did, and he gave the blond a pointed look that said 'seriously?'. I wondered if the mutual understanding that Sam mentioned earlier applied to him in the same way. I didn't have time to dwell on that, though, since I was already blushing like a tomato in the summer.

"Uh, he's not," I stammered, waving my hands sheepishly, "erm..we aren't—"

"Relax, baby, I'm just messing around," Sam said, beginning to walk away, "but if you change your mind, you can find me in the kitchen."

I paused. "The kitchen?"

"Exactly," he grinned, winking in a terribly flirtatious way, "'cause that's where all the pans are."

Pans?

Oh, Pansexual. I stifled a laugh at that, a small smile on my face as I watched him dramatically collapse into the chair beside Avery, lifting his legs to rest on the desk. It was silent again, everyone doing their own things, until the sound of footsteps came approaching from the hallway. I exhaled a sigh of relief.

The door pushed open with a click, and Timothée strode in, a loose piece of paper dangling from his hand. He was scanning it intently, muttering things under his breath as he came to a stop in the center of the room.

"So, I've got the fax from our insider," he said, "we've got a green light on our plan."

I furrowed a brow, leaning into the back of the couch. "Insider?"

"Inside source," Sam answered for me.

"Who's that?"

"We call them the inside source for a reason, baby," he grinned, "you're not supposed to know."

I nodded my head sheepishly, wishing I could melt into the cushions. I wasn't exactly prepared to be part of a heist, and I certainly didn't have any experience, so I was treading on thin ice. Glancing at the floor, I let Timothée continue explaining.

"The Corne D'Abondance is the place my uncle will be dining at on Saturday," he said, reading off the paper, "our goal is to find information about his party so we can score a ticket."

"Sounds like a plan," Sam yawned, resting his hand on Avery's thigh, "anything else?"

"Yeah," Timothée said, pointing at me, "we need to get this one up to speed."

Avery let out a snort. "This should be fun."

Questioning the suspicious tone used towards me, I crossed my legs, propping myself more comfortably in my seat at the back of the room. I knew what Timothée meant, but I wanted to know what it entailed—and if I should make a run for it now.

"What do you mean 'up to speed?'" I asked.

Timothée opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

"You gotta' master the three basics, baby," Sam said, his thick accent rolling off his tongue like water, "stealing, seduction, and sabotage."

Oh.

I couldn't help but feel my stomach drop when I heard those words. I was promised I wouldn't be doing anything illegal, and yet all three of those things were inherently questionable. I didn't want to steal anything—the three boys can handle that—and I definitely didn't want to seduce someone and sabotage them. It seemed I had no choice in the matter anyways. I agreed to this, and if my pride wasn't enough motivation to do it, my stubbornness was.

Timothée tossed his paper onto the desk, crossing his arms against his chest as he looked at me. "Think you can handle it?"

He wasn't kidding when he said this was dangerous. He also wasn't kidding when he said he was dangerous. If he mastered these three 'basics' already, I had no doubt he had more tricks up his sleeve. I should have been scared. Maybe a little worried even, but if anything, it made me more intrigued.

"Deal's a deal, Timothée," I said, nodding my head, "I can handle it."