Page 11

Lara

I catch a glimpse of Lark walking past, on some mission that only he knows about for the moment.

He's changed since he first walked into my office; his rough edges have smoothed out even more, but that intensity in his gaze? That remains unchanged from the first moment I met him. Same with his effect on my body. Even now I’m feeling overheated and resist the urge to fan myself or turn the thermostat down.

I notice him walk back by, his nose in a book, giving the words more attention than the subject matter deserves.

“Find something interesting?” I ask, my voice casual as I face him fully. Is it an accident that he’s slowly walking past my office?

“Always,” Lark replies, looking up from the book and pausing in place to talk with me. “But nothing as interesting as the view from here.”

My breath catches and I want to remind him there’s no chance of romance between us… until he gestures past me to the twinkling lights of the city under the darkness of night.

I almost laugh as memories on the plane bring me back to the moment he said the view was amazing and I thought he was complimenting me. This time I’m both disappointed and relieved he’s talking about the view.

His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, it feels like he's not talking about the cityscape at all. I force a smile, my heart thumping a rhythm that's too quick, too telling. It’s that easy for me to be pulled right back into the endless desire for him. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.

“This city has a way of making you feel on top of the world,” I say, shifting the focus back to the concrete jungle outside.

“Or on the edge of a cliff,” he says, moving toward me with slow, deliberate steps.

“Depends on the day,” I say with a tilt of my head, debating if I should stand up and meet him halfway. His presence fills the room, that undeniable energy somehow as compelling as it is alarming.

“Today was a good day, though, wasn't it?” he asks, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

“It was productive, at least.” I stand and walk around my desk, maintaining a professional distance, despite the slamming of my heart and the way my body demands I move closer still, until there are no barriers between us anymore. How long can I fight this?

“Productivity is good. Success is better.” His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of truth that warns me he’s not quite where he’d like to be at this stage of his life. I’m right there with him; I plan to keep moving forward and up.

“Success is the goal,” I say, moving toward the window as he falls into step beside me. The reflection shows both of us, our images like ghosts over a city that never slows down to breathe. It's a powerful visual, one that reinforces why I'm here.

“Goals are meant to be achieved,” Lark says, shifting his weight, close but not too close. “And I've never seen you fail to achieve yours.”

I like the compliment – it means so much more than calling me pretty, because I have to work for success – but I realistically wonder how he knows. He’s been out of my life for years now, and there are plenty of things about me that he doesn’t know.

“Let's keep it that way,” I say, holding his gaze in the reflection before turning away. There's work to be done, and no matter how unsettling Lark's presence might be, I can't afford distractions. Especially not the kind of life-altering distractions he brings with him.

“Let's,” he says in a way that tells me he’ll fight to help me every step of the way. I can also hear the smile in his voice as I step away, putting physical space between us once again. If I don’t… well… all bets are off. This man has an effect on me I can’t control or deny.

No matter what, I won't falter—not in business, and certainly not in whatever game we started five years ago and still haven’t seemed to concede, despite mutual promises to keep things professional. It occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, he’s struggling just as much to maintain that distance between us. But that’s not possible… is it?

I walk down the hall with purpose, my arms heavy with cardboard carriers brimming with coffees and bags of takeout that boast a variety of dishes and flavors.

I worry about my people, the stress lines etched into faces, evidence of long hours and relentless work. They’re long overdue for a break. With a few helpers who were in on things, Lark, Shana, and Mark, we carry things to the break room.

“Alright, everyone. Let's eat!” I say, the announcement leaving the space suddenly silent as heads pop up like prairie dogs alerted to a change in the wind.

“Is that from Gianni's?” one of the developers asks with a hopeful lilt as he sniffs the air.

“Yes – I got everyone’s favorite.” We set down the feast on the large central table, and the team converges with an enthusiasm that warms my heart. “You've all earned this.”

And I’ll never let anyone who tells me that keeping a spreadsheet of everyone’s favorite meals is crazy again.

A chorus of thanks transforms the room from a high-stress office to a communal dining space filled with conversations and joy. Smiles replace furrowed brows, and the music of unwrapping, pouring, and contented chatter replaces the frustration.

As the room buzzes with energy and happiness, I feel a gaze linger on me. Lark. It's been weeks since I told him that we’re keeping it professional, but the tension remains—a live wire we’re both trying desperately to avoid.

“Great idea bringing in lunch,” he says, leaning against a column with a casual elegance. “It's like you can read our minds.”

“Or stomachs,” I tease, keeping things light. Can I trust him? His presence is a pebble in my shoe—small but persistent. Every time I think I’m safe, I start to doubt and worry that he’s going to slip back into my life in a romantic sense… and that can’t happen.

“Both are important for morale.” His eyes hold mine a moment too long and the intimacy there unsettles me, leaving my heart fluttering and my face warming.

“Morale is key to an engaged, happy, work environment.” We might as well be quoting from some business handbook, but there’s an undercurrent that has me wanting to sidestep the conversation, so I move to help distribute plates and utensils.

“Can't have the troops going hungry,” Lark says as he follows close, but not crowding. His help isn't necessary, but it's not unwelcome, either. As he moves plates in stacks along the table where everyone can reach, I take a handful of plastic forks and move them beside the plates.

“Exactly,” I say, feeling the weight of his attention. What does he want?

“Especially when the general sets such a formidable pace,” he says, voice low, just for me.

“Focus on your own plate, soldier,” I tease, while taking a step back, but my heart skips. Why does he do this? Push and pull, teasing that could be innocent or not, a professionalism that leaves me longing for something else entirely.

“I always do,” he says, flashing a wink at me that dries up every drop of saliva in my mouth. How? How does he do that? Like he has some orders on command that just make my body respond without my permission.

“Good,” I say, even as questions swirl. Lunch continues around us, a pleasant gathering that I use as an excuse to turn my attention from him. I hide my worry behind a smile and focus on my team; their laughter, their camaraderie. They are why I'm here, why we're all here.

“Enjoy, everyone!” I call out, raising my cup in a mock toast before slipping away from the room and back to the safety of my desk.

Only when I’m safely back in my office do I exhale. Try as I might, I can’t shake off Lark's lingering presence that clings like sweat to my skin. Why does he have to be everywhere? The way his eyes hold mine, that slow, knowing smirk—it's too much. His casual touches leave me trembling inside, and desperate for what we shared in the past. But the past is past. That’s not my future. He’s not my future.

“Come in,” I say when a knock interrupts my thoughts. The door opens and, of course, it's him. My hands tremble and I lower them to my lap, casually smoothing the material of my dress. The color matches the gray ring in my eyes and manages to be both professional and sleek all at once.

“Hey.” He steps into my space, all casual confidence and rugged charm. This is my empire, my rules, yet here I am, a bundle of nerves because of this man. How dare he?

He extends a plate toward me, its contents colorful and arranged with care. “I noticed you didn't eat.” His voice is soft, yet it reverberates through me, sending ripples through my body, much like the pleasure he’d—

“Thanks.” The word catches in my throat. It's ridiculous, how just a few simple words and a thoughtful gesture like this can reduce me to a quivering puddle. I'm strong, damn it. But with Lark, my strength seems as substantial as a wisp of steam.

He nods, and there’s that look again—the one that makes me feel seen, vulnerable. I take the plate, our fingers brushing. A jolt of electricity tingles up my arm from the point of contact, and I jerk away, nearly dumping the plate.

Despite my movement, he holds onto the plate, even when I let go. Flustered from his touch, I smile at him and he places it on my desk. There’s a look in his eyes, an acknowledgement that he felt the same shock when we touched. And suddenly, my office feels too small, too intimate. We shouldn’t be in here alone.

“Sorry,” he says, the word brushing across my skin like his fingertips had when we—. Why can’t I stop thinking about those nights in his arms?

His eyes assess me as if he’s trying to read the moment. I can only hope I’m not giving him clues; I don’t want him to know I’m barely hanging on to a thread of self-control right now. I want to jump on him, pin him to my desk, and take the pleasure he so effortlessly gave.

But I can’t do that. We can’t do that.

He steps back, one corner of his mouth lifting in an apologetic half-smile while his eyes seem to be asking questions I'm afraid to answer.

Feeling like I’m failing to hide in the fortress of professionalism I’ve built, I scramble for what to do or say next, but come up with nothing helpful. “Work is…” Work is what? Brain, come on, give me something to work with!

“Important. I get it.” The softness in his voice almost annoys me because his concern shouldn't be able to break through my defenses.

To my relief – and dismay – he turns and makes his way to the door. But with his hand on the knob, he pauses as if to say more. Then he seems to change his mind. Instead, he pulls the door open and slips out toward the voices in the break room and I’m left staring at the plate of food, so thoughtfully arranged, wondering what the heck just happened.

I sit there, staring at the space where he stood, the emotions left behind, lingering like a ghost. I draw in a shaky breath, turning my attention back to the food on my desk, wondering why it feels like a peace offering in a battle I didn't know we were fighting.

“Damn you, Lark,” I whisper to the empty room. No matter how tall I've built my walls, he finds a way over them, under them, around them. And each time, it scares me more—because falling isn't just a possibility; it's starting to seem inescapable.

So… maybe hiring him was a mistake.

The silence wraps around me, a reminder that I'm alone again, left to wonder what game we're playing—and why I'm so scared that I've already lost.

I push the plate aside, untouched. I can't afford distractions. Not when everything I've worked for is at stake. Not when my heart is the prize, and Lark doesn't even know he's competing for it. Or does he?

Another knock at the door has me worried he’s back again, maybe to say whatever he’d left unsaid before. But the door opens to Shana instead. Her gaze meets mine and I can see the concern there.

I wave her in and she sits, her ribs deflating as she lets out a huge breath. “What happened?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

“Another rejection,” she says, her voice steady despite the setback.

I lean forward, planting my elbows on the desk and pressing my fingertips together as I absorb the news. “We need someone who fits, not just anyone.”

“Right.” Shana sighs, flipping through the profiles scattered across the table. “But time isn't exactly on our side.”

“Quality over quick,” I say, my tone firm. “Our third partner has to share our vision.”

“Agreed.” She pauses, then looks up with a determined gleam in her eyes. “We'll find them. We have to.”

“Absolutely.” I stand, stretching the tension from my limbs. The office fades away as I picture my son's smile, the real reason behind all this striving.

“Mommy!” A blur of energy greets me as the door swings open. My brother sits there, grinning as my son launches himself into my arms.

“Hey, buddy!” I laugh, lifting him up high.

“Uncle Damon and I made an obstacle course!” Win says, wiggling to be set down. I follow him as he takes my hand to show off what they’ve done, and Damon follows.

They've turned the living room into a labyrinth of cushions and blankets, chairs and boxes.

“Looks impressive,” I say, when he looks over his shoulder at me, his smile wide and excited.

“Watch this!” he exclaims and dashes off, navigating the makeshift hurdles with the unbridled joy only a child possesses.

“Careful!” I call after him, but he's already giggling, disappearing behind a fortress of pillows.

Damon meets my eye, and I want to tell him he’s the best uncle in the history of uncles.

“Good job with the setup,” I say to him, warmth swelling in my chest for his support. “You’re the best uncle a kid could ask for.”

“Anything for my nephew,” he says, a hint of pride in his tone.

“Alright, little man,” I say, as Win pops back into view while rolling up my sleeves. “Show me how it's done.”

He leads me off and I drop to my hands and knees, the marble floors cool against my palms. Together, we crawl under the dining table, transformed into a mountain tunnel. I’m not dressed for this, but I don’t give a damn. I love these moments with my son. They make everything else worth it.

“Come on, Mommy!” my son's laughter trickles from the other side. He's quick, darting ahead with the grace of a child used to a lot of movement.

“Slow down,” I say, a teasing note in my voice, but there's no stopping him; he's across the makeshift bridge of couch cushions before I've even cleared the mountain tunnel.

“Your turn!” He turns to me, eyes wide with excitement, a challenge in his adorable grin.

“Alright.” I eye the "river" – a sea of blue blankets spread between us. With an exaggerated leap, I land on the other side and he grabs my hand as if to keep me from falling. “You saved my life!” I say, squeezing his hand.

His little hands clap, pure joy radiating from him.

“Great jump, sis,” Damon says from his chair. He’s playing referee in our game of make-believe with a warm smile and encouraging nods.

“Thanks for this, Damon,” I say, catching my breath as Win continues on. “He loves it.”

“Of course,” Damon says, as if he’s surprised at my comment. I chase after my son as he weaves through the labyrinth.

“Gotcha!” I scoop up my son as we tumble into the fortress of pillows, his giggles infectious and punctuated with a sneeze. These moments are the ones that make all the hard work worthwhile. Hearing his giggles, playing with him, watching him learn and grow. These are the memories that get me through the tough moments.