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“This is bullshit,” Lucy hisses, yanking her hat off and tossing it to the side. “Absolute bullshit.”
“You’re the one who wanted to rob the Musée de Louvre,” Lockwood says, the French rolling off his tongue, warm and low. Lucy resists the urge to shiver, snapping on black rubber gloves.
“I didn’t say the Louvre specifically, just somewhere a little more daring than the National Gallery—”
“Like the National Gallery isn’t challenging enough,” George grouses in her ear. Keyboard keys click rapid-fire. “It’s like you hate me or something, the amount of research I had to do to even place us in France—”
“Shut up, you like the challenge,” Lucy grits out, painstakingly prying the tacks from the canvas. It has to be done well, this painting has gone through so much already and she won’t be the one to cause it more pain.
“All or nothing,” Lockwood murmurs beside her, hands bracing the stretcher. It barely moves under his grip, steady enough that she only nicks her finger on a particularly stubborn tack as opposed to slicing her entire thumb off. Lucy growls, rooting around in her back for another glove as she shoves her finger in her mouth.
“I thought I remembered you saying ‘just reckless enough’, or did I dream that—”
“Lucy,” Lockwood interrupts, gentle. He takes the extractor from her shaking grip, plucking up the glove from where it’d fluttered from her hand to be cradled by the canvas. The tension is looser, painting bowing in the middle. It could damage the art if she doesn’t fix it. She needs to fix it—
Lockwood touches her cheek, drawing her back to him. His gaze glitters in the moonlight, filtering through the Louvre’s curved glass ceiling. Lucy can’t help but think back to the first time he kissed her, high off the success of their first real heist as a team. His hands had smelled like bank notes, sharp and sour. His mouth had tasted sweet, like breakfast tea and cinnamon.
He hasn’t kissed her since. And now, in this moment more than ever, his gaze dragging over her like honey, Lucy wishes he would. Wishes desperately that he would tug her close, fit his mouth over hers, let her indulge the cocktail of tastes that only his lips can provide.
She tugs the glove over her trembling fingers. She can feel her pulse in her fingertips as she takes the extractor from his offered grip. They work in silent tandem, their task interrupted only by the occasional hissed curse and the incessant tapping of George’s keyboard in their ears.
It isn’t until the replacement has been secured onto the stretcher and placed back on the wall that Lucy wipes the sweat from her brow and speaks.
“We’re not doing this again.”
“Oh, I think we will.” Lockwood grins at her, a flash of white in the dark as he bounces on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets. “You love this too much to stop.”
“I hate this.”
“Well, you didn’t want to pull rabbits from a hat—”
“Pull one out of your arse,” Lucy snaps. Lockwood snorts before shaking his head.
“Play nice, love. Are we nearly done here?”
Lucy glances down at the painting in her hands, canvas rolling over her fingertips. Her heart stutters to a stop at the sight of the painting laid out in her lap in all its glory. Da Vinci’s Virgin of the Rocks. She was the one to pick it, to remove it and paint and then install its replacements.
But, it’s just…beautiful. A masterpiece in her hands. The weight of what they’re to do slams into her chest and Lucy lets out a stuttering exhale. They aren’t done here, not even close.
They’ve only just begun.
---
Lucy picks him because he looks posh. Slicked-back hair, well-tailored trousers, a nice navy tie. Silk, if she were to hazard a guess. The kind of person who can stand to have their pocket picked.
His friend doesn’t look nearly as well-off, but that’s his problem.
She bumps into him with a murmured apology, lifting his wallet from his pocket and slipping it into her satchel. It happens in a blink of an eye, too fast to anyone to parse—
“Where do you think you’re going, love?”
Lucy whips around, blinking at the sight of the man holding her phone between his thumb and pointer finger. His grin is nearly blinding.
Of course, she lifted his wallet too fast for anyone to parse.
Anyone except a fellow pickpocket.
She stalks forward, snatching her phone back. “Thanks,” she says acidly, turning to leave. The man tuts, holding out his empty hand palm up.
“And?”
Lucy rolls her eyes, making a showing of digging around for his wallet in her bag. She slips out a few bills before whipping it out and handing it to him with an exaggerated flourish. His grin widens as she places it in his palm, almost like he knows what she’s done. But if he does, he doesn’t say a word about it.
“You’re not bad, you know. D’you know any other tricks?”
Lucy scoffs. “Sure, I know a bit of magic, if you’re into that.”
“Thought so,” he hums. “I’ve seen you busking. You’re quite good. Might even benefit from joining a team.”
“Lockwood,” his friend says reproachfully, head tilted as he regards her. Lucy ignores him, eyes narrowing as she looks the man—Lockwood—up and down.
“A team? What good would that do me?”
Lockwood smiles, twisting his wrist with a flourish. A business card appears out of thin air, thick cream cardstock caught between his two fingers.
“Come see us tonight. We’re performing in Wycombe.”
Lucy takes the card hesitantly, turning it over in her grip. Lockwood & Co. A phone number. The back reads, in a slender inky scrawl, The closer you look, the less you’ll see.
“That’s rich, you—”
Lucy looks up. They’re both gone, London crowd swirling into the empty spots where the two men just stood. She rolls her eyes even as her grip tightens over the card. Theatrics. Nothing more.
She does go and see them. Just out of morbid curiosity, of course. And they’re not bad. Lockwood has the crowd eating out of his palm, coin flips and card tricks and every flashy sleight of hand rousing them into raucous cheers. He’s a regular Houdini with the cuffs, which definitely gets the younger woman in the audience interested. Lucy marks herself down as impassive over his escape routines—lies, lies, but magic is just lying with your body and she’s aces at that—
He’s good, but Lucy can see the flicks of his wrist, the turn of his hand where he hides and misdirects. Granted, she is looking for those things, but still. If she was performing, they wouldn’t see those bits. Not even if they were looking for them.
His friend, on the other hand—George, she gathers from their little routines—is much more sneaky. Not as flashy as Lockwood nor as comfortable on stage, but he’s got clean, detailed tricks that clearly have a lot of thought put into them. And Lockwood ribs him into whip-sharp commentary, a constant back and forth almost as entertaining as the tricks themselves. It’s clear this stage is too small for him. Both of them, if she’s being honest with herself.
They don’t even have card-throwing in their show arsenal. Lucy could make them better.
But the question is, are they good enough for her?
---
The police are after them, the wail of their sirens just close enough to have adrenaline racing through her veins.
“Faster,” George spits from the backseat, computer bouncing in his lap as he desperately tries to organize their cover. “My gran can drive faster than you, honestly—”
“I’m giving it all she’s got,” Lockwood snaps, shoulders hiked up to his ears as he drives. Lucy sits in a daze, body jerking at the tight turn Lockwood makes into a nearby alley.
They actually pulled it off. Once they escape, they’re off the hook. They’ll have successfully completed their first heist on their own, without the Eye’s guidance. Lucy wants to stick her head out the window, wants to let the wind push back her hair as she whoops with glee.
They’re unstoppable. They’re on top of the world.
What does one do to celebrate when they’ve repatriated five priceless pieces of art? Go clubbing? Have a nice dinner? Drink herself silly? Find someone to take her home and take her apart?
Lucy finds her gaze drifting to the tense line of Lockwood’s jaw, the set of his long, clever fingers against the gear lever. Lockwood would do it. If she asked. Maybe even if she didn’t. She hasn’t forgotten that searing kiss he gave her two years ago. Lockwood hasn’t forgotten either, even if he never says a word about it. The way he looks at her is telling enough.
She glances back over her shoulder at George. He’s not so easy to read as Lockwood, but he’s just as easy to want. He watches her with that sharp gaze of his, calculates every touch and word between them like the steps of a card trick. And the way he circles her—and Lockwood too, but Lucy’s sure they have history between them. They can’t not have it, not with the way they touch each other late in the kitchen when they forget she’s still sitting on the sofa, watching them. Or maybe they know she’s there and they want her to—
“Tell me you have the diversion ready, Luce,” George snaps from the backseat. Lucy jolts, fumbling for the remote in her pocket. She smooths her finger over the button, exhaling steadily.
They’re not on top yet. There’s still one more trick, one more vanishing act to pull.
But she can see the end in sight. And for this one, they’re going to be going out with a bang.
---
George is sitting on the couch, cards flicking back and forth between his hands, when she joins him. The motions are almost idle, his gaze trained on the wall with a startling intensity as the cards twirl and fold and pivot on his knuckles. He’s zoned out again. Thinking.
“Why’d you join him?” Lucy asks after a bit, when the sound of the cards is threatening to send her into a light doze. George blinks, looking over at her.
“Lockwood?”
“Mm.”
He gives her a wry grin. The performer smile, too straight and practiced. “Would you believe I had nowhere else to go?”
“No, not the great George Karim,” she gasps, fluttering her eyelashes as she presses a hand to her chest. He laughs.
“It’s true.” He fans his cards out before offering them to her. The age-old trick. Lucy dutifully picks a card, glancing at it before shoving it back into the deck. She snatches the deck away from when he makes to shuffle it.
“And he gave you a place to stay,” she says as she mixes them up herself. She knows how this trick is done. She figured it out by the time she could speak in full sentences. And yet, she can never figure out how George manages it, no matter how she tries to stump him. She shuffles his cards, replaces his deck. Blindfolds him.
He always gets her card right.
“That, yes. But he made a place for me in his act. I don’t have…the presence he does,” George decides on after a moment. “I don’t have the face. I hate the stage but I still want it a bit. And you know how Lockwood adores being in the limelight. He let me in, despite it. I make his act better, of course, but he still…”
George shakes his head before taking the deck back from her. He does his usual flourishes and even a few new ones. She knows how to do them all. But he still makes it look like magic. Watching him perform—and Lockwood too—always makes her feel like she did the first time she watched a coin vanish from her uncle’s grip only to reappear behind her ear. The wonder still exists with them, glowing bright against the looming cynicism that she can never quite shake.
“He saw past the magic,” Lucy finishes quietly. “He saw you.”
George hums. “People don’t see me very often, especially next to him. They like me even less.”
“I like you, Georgie,” she says reproachfully. He smiles at her. The real one, his mouth crooking up unevenly as his eyes curve into crescents.
“I know.”
He leans forward, hand drawing up to her face. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and Lucy’s seen Lockwood do this a million times before, with young women, with children, with a stoic security guard on one memorable occasion. Except George goes further. His knuckles skim down her cheek, fingers extending to cradle her head ever so gently. His two fingers curl behind her ear. Lucy’s heart pounds.
He draws back, wrist flicking lightly to summon a card between his two fingers. Lucy can’t even fathom where he was hiding it, given he held her face in his hands and she didn’t feel the card at all.
“Your card?”
Nine of hearts. Of course it is.
“You already know,” she huffs, smiling. George tilts his head. His gaze is piercing, even through his glasses. She feels like a butterfly, spread open and pinned down.
“Tell me anyway, Lucy.”
She licks her lips. Watches George’s gaze flick down to track the movement, gaze dark and curious. They both want, that much is obvious. But what’s fun about George is he plays the long game. Lockwood isn’t nearly patient enough. Lucy’s positive that he’ll snap any day now and crowd her against the wall like he clearly wants to, mouth pressing to the line of her throat or behind her ear where she tucks her perfume just so she can his nostrils flare every time she leans in.
George, on the other hand, watches. Waits. Like any good magician, he bides his time, practicing and testing and experimenting until exactly the right moment, when the reveal will be its most impressive. Or its most devastating.
She and George are playing that game now, circling each other as they poke and prod. Honestly, they’ve been playing this game ever since she joined their ranks. Only, the goal seems to have…shifted recently. He watches her with a tinge of curiosity now, the one he reserves only for his most complicated projects that occupy his every waking thought.
Lucy hopes she’ll pass muster. For now, she looks up at him through her lashes, plucking the card from his grasp and making it vanish between her fingertips. Child’s play.
But they’re all just children in the end, aren’t they? Children trying to impress the world.
“That was my card, yes.”
“And I suppose for your next trick, you’ve hidden it where I can’t find it?”
Lucy smiles. “Something like that.”
His fingers touch her wrist, featherlight. “Well, I’ll find it.” There’s not a shred of doubt in his voice. And Lucy believes him, wholeheartedly.
---
“And, ladies and gentlemen, for our final act of the night,” Lockwood announces, extending his arm to the crowd. “We’re going to become patrons of the arts.”
The crowd titters amidst the polite, if not slightly bemused applause. George takes his cue, slipping forward into the spotlight.
“You’re all of a highbrow sort, aren’t you? Appreciators of fine art and music?” His mouth curves, just sweet enough to hide the sharpness beneath. Lucy waves her hand before the knife edge of his smile can slice through, redirecting the audience’s attention.
“The backbone of society’s culture. We’re eternally grateful for your patronage to the arts, and we’ve prepared a special surprise for you all here tonight, in thanks.”
“My colleagues will be helping the audience pick five lucky members to inform our decisions tonight. Lucy, George,” Lockwood says with a nod of his head, extending two glass vases to them filled with labeled ping pong balls. Lucy takes one and lets the crowd choose three. It’s easy enough to palm the balls, switch them for their predetermined audience members. But the thrill of doing it in front of thousands of oblivious guests makes it all the more fun.
Lockwood catches each ball thrown at him with ease, calling out seat numbers and urging the chosen few to stand. His cufflinks glint in the spotlight as he twists his wrist to show the camera each seat number, a decorative flair to hide the truth.
“You’ve all been to the Musée de Louvre, oui?”
Lucy resists the urge to shiver again as the crowd gives their murmurs of approval. She’s still yet to ask Lockwood whether he actually speaks French or if he just practiced the scarce few words in the mirror a thousand times over, like he did his performer’s smile. She’s seen him rehearse it in the washroom. The smile still manages to charm her, despite.
“Good, good,” he says easily, listing forward and drawing the audience in, like tugging at a fishing line with practiced fingers. “You have favorites, then. Those of you who have been chosen, tell me the names of those pieces that have caught your heart.”
The stage lights dim, spotlights flicking on one-by-one to illuminate the five paintings each audience member declares their favorite in the provided microphones.
The Wedding at Cana. La Belle Ferronnière. Spring. The Abduction of Helen.
And of course, Virgin of the Rocks.
The crowd erupts into applause at the final reveal, clearly pleased by this little parlor trick. George inclines his head as Lockwood takes a few mock bows before he begins circling the stage like a pacing predator.
“Hold your praises, we’ve only just begun. Now, tell us. What are the odds of these paintings being…the originals?”
The audience laughs, some shouting out numbers for sport. Lucy smiles indulgently at them, gloved hands tucking behind her back. She can feel a touch of unease radiating from the audience, the kind where you can’t tell if someone’s joking or not so you laugh along in the hopes that they are. It makes something in her chest crow with pride. The trick has barely begun and they’re already nervous?
Good. They should be.
“Oh, as if,” she calls out amidst Lockwood and George’s playful bickering about the validity of these guesses. “It would be preposterous if they were real. The Louvre’s security is one of the finest in the world, befitting of a world-renowned art gallery, is it not?”
Lockwood laughs, flashing her a grin. “You’re right, as always, Luce. But…you never know…”
He walks towards the paintings, summoning a lighter out of thin air with a flourish of his wrist. The small, flickering flame is paltry compared to the bright spotlights. But the audience sees it as plain as day. Some laugh, some gasp. The tension in the room thickens noticeably.
“Oh, some of you think I’m bluffing.” The wry shift of his mouth deepens. “Some of you don’t. I do know we have the director of the Louvre here tonight at our special invitation. Monsieur, if you would be so kind as to ring up your security? We wouldn’t want a scandal, now would we?”
“While he does that, we’ll just—” George snaps his fingers. The giant screens displaying their images flicker, each quickly replaced with a grainy feed from the Louvre security cameras. It’s late enough that the galleries are empty, but the sudden rush of security guards across the screens confirms the suspicion; these are, indeed, live feeds. “—give you all a show.”
There’s a buzz to the air, the audience almost holding their breath as the screens flicker and split to follow security beelining for the five paintings in question.
The guards find all five at once, perfectly intact in their frames. The audience breathes a sigh of relief.
Lockwood’s smile glints slyly under the stage lights.
“Sometimes, things aren’t quite what they seem.”
The live feed, grainy as it is, catches the exact moment all five paintings burst into flames. They vanish in moments, fire licking up the canvases and swallowing them whole.
The audience gasps and screams. Many jump to their feet in shock and outrage.
“So,” Lockwood says, dark and low like crushed velvet. The room quiets, the audience hanging on to his every word. “If these paintings are fake, then have we just destroyed five priceless treasures? Or…are the paintings in the Louvre recreations and…these the originals?”
He flicks the lighter on again, swaying towards a painting. His smile widens as a panicked scream swells from the audience.
“Shall we find out?”
Lockwood plays it well, but in the end, it’s all a bluff. Oil paintings don’t burn up with a snap of a finger. That’d be the flash paper that Lucy painted her recreations on. It was a bitch to work with and she had to churn out two sets of recreations each to make this whole trick work, but it’d been worth it when George had sat beside her for hours as she brought the first piece, The Abduction of Helen, to life with her brush. When she’d laid down the final touch before glaze, he’d touched her neck, his murmur of “Absolutely brilliant, Lucy,” curling over her ear like the slide of skin-warmed silk.
It'd been worth it when Lockwood had tugged her close on the sofa after dinner from her favorite Thai place, clever fingers digging into the knots forming in her shoulder and neck from hours hunched over her easel. When she’d melted in his arms and he’d brushed his lips to her temple, featherlight, and whispered, “You complete our act. We couldn’t do this without you.”
It’d been worth it when she’d laid all ten portraits out side-by-side, months and months of effort gleaming before her in the late afternoon sun. And it’s worth it now, for the purr of satisfaction knowing that her work has been mistaken for the originals not once, but twice.
Her hard work will go up in flames, but that’s the price of the act. The originals are safe and sound in Italy, their home country, where they’ve been denied for so long but do really belong. It’s all so sweet to see justice play out that Lucy can’t even find it in herself to mind the destruction, really.
The recreations burn in their frames, quick and simple. The audience practically riots. Security races for them and Lucy twiddles her fingers at them, trusting George to activate the—
Her heart flies into her throat as she falls, caught by the airbags George positioned for this exact purpose. Above them, bright lights flash and the audience roars.
“Go, go, go,” Lockwood hisses beside her, leaping out of the airbag and taking Lucy’s hand to yank her out of the miles of plasticky material that threaten to swallow her. She clambers out, kicking off her heels and jamming her feet into flats. She catches the heavy bag George tosses to her, looping it over her shoulder and patting it to check.
Clothes. Papers, forged and real. Her sketchbooks.
And cash. Lots of it.
She catches George’s eye. Lockwood’s too. The three of them exchange a look, George’s mouth quirking up at the corner.
“No turning back.”
“Only forward.” Lockwood exhales, fingers tightening over the strap of his own kit bag. “Shall we?”
The doors open. And they run.
---
Lucy’s hands are shaking. She’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline of escaping or the high of success rattling her brain but her hands won’t stop shaking—
Lockwood slips the bottle from her fingertips, fitting the edge of his ring beneath the cap to pop it off with a flourish. He hands the cider back to her with a gentle smile, tapping the neck of his bottle to hers.
“We did it.” He tips his bottle to where George is curled up on the sofa. Lockwood takes a swig, his throat bobbing in a swallow before he falls onto the cushions with a huff. “Another successful excursion.”
“We haven’t done it yet,” George scoffs, fingers curling tighter around his mug of whiskey. Lockwood scoffs, catching Lucy’s eye and patting the spot on the sofa between him and George.
“The hard part’s done,” he says as Lucy complies, settling carefully between them. “We just have to lie low and wait for them not to catch us. Easy.”
“And yet it’s the hardest part for you,” George snorts. He shifts, angling his body towards Lucy’s. His knee nudges her thigh. “You’re going to be pacing the length of this room like a caged tiger in 48 hours, mark my words.”
Lockwood snaps his teeth playfully, a little growl rumbling in his throat. It makes something freeze in Lucy’s stomach, trickling lower between her legs. She watches Lockwood lean back, watches the gleam in his eye burn down to a low simmer. Always there, just hiding.
“I’ll find something to occupy myself—”
“Or,” George interrupts, leaning forward, “you could finally try your hand at card throwing.”
“I don’t need it, my kit’s plenty robust—”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to be bad at it,” Lucy volunteers, watching his gaze snap to her face. George hums beside her, hand sliding over to squeeze her thigh approvingly and the feeling grows, twisting between her legs and snaking up her stomach to curl around her heart.
“I paste you both at darts every single time,” Lockwood huffs, “who’s to say I’ll be bad at this?”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
“Luce,” Lockwood says, fingertips sliding along her arm. It feels like he’s leaving a trail of fire in his wake. “Tomorrow. Teach me how to win and I will.”
“You can’t just wish that into existence—”
“Watch me—”
The boys are leaning in closer, trapping her in between them. It’s the kind of pressure she’s been craving since she worked her way into their circle. It’s the warmth and the familiarity she wants so badly, just barely out of reach. George’s fingers curling along her thigh, Lockwood’s hand draping over her wrist. It’s exactly what she wants.
But not like this. She doesn’t want it like this. The tease of the trick, the wide-eyed shock at the reveal. Lucy wants the fumble, the glint of a card slipped between two fingers where the audience can’t see it. She wants the nights of planning and failed attempts, the bright show lights and the dim bedroom glow and the frustration of a trick gone bad and the satisfaction of a trick gone well.
Lockwood kissed her once. George almost did tonight, swaying forward just so before pulling away, something tense in his shoulders. Every step he’d taken away from her had hurt like being stabbed and it feels like every look Lockwood has given her since their first heist, ripe with promise but refusing to fall from the tree into her hungry hands. And she just can’t take it.
Lucy wants them to herself. She wants it all.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says. Her bottle settles against the table with a clink. George’s hand slinks away as Lockwood stiffens beside her. “I can’t.”
Lucy pushes herself up from the sofa, twisting around to face them. “Tell me there’s something more,” she almost begs, catching herself as she starts to list forward. “There’s only so high we can go before we fall and I need to know, I have to know if there’s going to be something there to catch me when we do.”
Lockwood’s head tilts up at her, his stupid, beautiful mouth dropping open ever so slightly. “What do you mean, Lucy?”
She twists her fingers together, picking at the dry skin by her thumbnail and watching it peel back. “I…it’s stupid but I don’t care—”
“It’s not. It’s not stupid, Luce, you’re never—” Lockwood catches himself, tongue rolling over his bottom lip as he glances at George. “Tell us.”
“I want you to catch me. Both of you.” She flicks her gaze up, taking in frozen expressions. “So just tell me if I’m stupid or crazy or—”
George rockets up to his feet, swaying forward as his hands cup her cheeks. He leans in. “You’re not,” he says simply, and then he’s finally, finally kissing her. His lips move against hers with a purpose, thumbs pressing to her cheeks to tilt her face just so like he’s thought of this for just as long as she has. George is patient, though. He’s probably been thinking about it for longer.
Lucy swipes her tongue over the ridges of his teeth and George groans, fingers snaking back to tangle in her hair. She feels another hand curving over the back of her neck, a tiny shock of cool metal against her skin. Lockwood urges them both back down onto the sofa, his chest pressing to her back as they settle in a mess of limbs and mouths.
“We’ll catch you, Luce,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting over the hinge of her jaw. His teeth catch at the skin and Lucy shivers. “If you let us, we’ll catch you every time.”
She blinks as George pulls back, nudging at his glasses. He looks at her like a trick he’s finally peeled open, thrilled at what lies beneath.
“Tell us we can,” he says breathlessly. Lockwood’s arm winds around her waist and Lucy twists to look at him, to track the molten heat in his gaze.
“Whatever we have, it’s yours,” he promises quietly. It’s more than enough. Lucy turns back, reaching up to pluck George’s glasses from his face.
“Just you two,” she mumbles against George’s mouth. His tongue drags over hers and she moans. “Please.”
“Then you have us.” Lockwood’s fingers turn her chin so that their mouths meet, and it’s the sound of applause, the warmth of George’s cooking, the feeling of fingers folding over hers as they hold the cards.
It’s the feeling of being caught and held. And it’s perfect.
---
“Well,” Lockwood declares from the sofa, long legs tossed over the length of it, “we’ve successfully robbed two banks for our initiation rites into the Eye. So, my question is…”
“Where do we go from here,” George finishes, prodding at a freshly-baked loaf of bread as his brows furrow. He’s been having a bit of a rough time with the sourdough starter.
“Up?” Lucy queries, stepping over to shove her fingers into his thigh. “Move, your legs are too long.”
“I can’t help it,” Lockwood pouts even as he complies, legs tucking under him to make room for Lucy. She falls into her seat with a huff, gesturing impatiently for Lockwood to continue. “Well, the way I see it? We can go anywhere we want. Which means we should think as big as we want.”
George hums vaguely from the kitchen, bustling over to hand them two small pieces of bread. “Tell me how it tastes. And don’t lie.”
“To you, Georgie? Never.” Lockwood makes a show of taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. “It’s delicious. I’ve never tasted better bread in my life.”
“You’re useless,” George huffs even as his cheeks color. “Luce?”
“Dense,” she decides after a moment of chewing. “But it’s still very good—”
“Under-proofed, I knew it,” he hisses, snatching the bread from their hands before retreating to the kitchen. Lockwood looks forlornly at his empty hand, still held aloft. Lucy feels her chest tighten. She could love them both, if they let her. They could build something here, something strong enough to withstand all their sins and then she could wrap her arms around George’s waist, kiss the hollow of Lockwood’s throat that flexes as he—
“—were you telling me about the other day, Lucy? That article you were reading?”
Lucy blinks. Collects her thoughts. “What, the bit on repatriation of stolen art?”
“Exactly.” Lockwood snaps his fingers, excitement in his gaze. “I think that would be perfect. An art heist. Banks are old news now. ”
Lucy considers the idea. She’s invested enough in the art world that this would be fun for her. And George would love the research, with a doubt. But art can be a bit…limiting. Everyone uses banks. Art doesn’t quite hold the same sway as cold, hard cash. So the question is…
“Will it be big enough for us?”
“Oh, Lucy,” Lockwood croons, reaching forward to tap the tip of her nose with his finger. His smile is as soft as butter and as sharp as the knife that slices through it, and Lucy’s heart throbs at the sight. He’s just so unbearably handsome and he knows it. He’s going to be the death of her, one day.
“Not to worry. We’ll make it big.”