Page 13

Lara

I remember saying my goodbyes to Win this morning, and hearing Damon’s promise he’ll keep an eye on the nanny and win while I’m gone.

At work, tears swim in my eyes at the heartbroken look on Win’s face. And now, behind my desk, my trembling fingers clasp the cold metal of my phone, making it hard to focus on the image.

I press the device against my cheek, lips drawn tight over my teeth. The office—usually buzzing with the click-clack of keyboards and murmured conversations—seems quiet, but I’m in my own world right now, trying to figure out how I’m going to manage going on a work trip and being away from my son for two days. But Shana can’t make this meeting, so the responsibility falls on me.

“Is everything okay?” Lark’s voice startles me, and I drop my phone into my lap.

“I’m fine.” The words are a reflex.

He arches an eyebrow, those stunning green eyes tracing my face before coming back to my gaze. “You don't look fine.”

I force a smile, but I’m certain I’m not convincing. “Just... family stuff.” My thumb brushes over the dark screen, swiping away invisible smudges, anything to avoid his intense scrutiny.

“Do you need to step out and get some air?”

Damn him and his concern. And damn Shana for insisting I take him on this trip. I’m going to be stressed and missing my son, I don’t need any other… complications.

I shake my head no. My heart thuds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. If he only knew the truth. But he doesn’t and I’m glad.

“Okay, then.” He nods, but I catch the flicker of concern in his features before he leaves me in peace.

Alone again, I draw in a ragged breath and bite down on my lip, tasting the bitter tang of anxiety. I can do this. I’ll get through this. For my son and all those moments I cherish so much.

I shift in the passenger seat of the company car, the hum of the engine a low purr that does little to soothe the fluttering in my stomach.

Lark's hands are steady on the wheel as he navigates us out of town. I’d offered for us to take a driver so we could relax, but he likes to drive, so I let it go.

The concrete and lights of the cityscape blurs into greens and browns as we speed toward our destination, an out-of-town conference that feels more like torture.

“At least the traffic is light,” he says, glancing my way. “We'll make good time.”

I’m not going to study the square shape of his jaw or notice the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, or think about how we’re going to be in a hotel room together. Sure, it’s a multi-room suite, but that’s still too close for comfort.

“Great.” My response is terse as I fix my attention on the passing scenery. I can't shake the discomfort boiling within me and I still regret telling him about my son. Why did I tell him about my son? I’d felt bad about the hurt in his eyes when I put him in his place in the elevator. So I reached out with an olive branch of sorts, but it was a stupid choice.

“Is something on your mind?” he asks, his voice taking on a softer edge.

“Nothing important.” The lie tastes bitter, but it's necessary. He can’t know what I’m stressing about. And if he ever meets my son, sees those familiar mannerisms, those eyes too much like his own... No, I can't let that happen. I shouldn’t have said anything.

“Okay.” He doesn't push, and I’m grateful that he’s letting it go.

The miles stretch on, and with each one, the tension in my shoulders winds up tighter. I hate being away from my son and there’s a pull, an undeniable attraction that I've spent years trying to ignore. It's there in the way his jaw tightens when he concentrates, in the subtle scent of his cologne that fills the car, those powerful forearms and hands.

“Beautiful day, isn't it?” His attempt at small talk almost makes me smile, mostly because it’s like he knows I’m wound up tight and stressed, and he’s trying to find any way to get my head out of my thoughts.

“Sure is.” But I’m blind to the beauty of the day. My reality is split – at home with my son and in this car with him much too close for comfort. We should have brought a driver; this feels too intimate. But my thoughts lock on the man beside me who is unknowingly the father of my child.

“Shana couldn't make it, huh?” he asks, breaking the silence with another attempt at small talk.

“Her sister needed her.” I shrug, feigning indifference. Shana's the one who tends to do the out and about meetings and conventions. She’s better with people, and I prefer to bury myself in work… just not this kind.

Lark nods, and we fall back into quiet. I wrestle with the urge to reach out and touch his arm, or to speak up and have a conversation, anything to bridge the gap between us. But I can't. Not when there's so much at stake.

“Hey.” His voice pulls me from my internal battle. “You're doing that thing again.”

I glance at him, confused. “What thing?”

“Chewing your lip.” He points it out casually, but I swear I can hear concern in his tone, too.

“Oh, yeah.” I stop immediately, pressing my lips together into a flat line both to stop myself from biting them and to keep my secrets locked inside. I thought this would be easy. I thought wrong.

“Look, Lara...” He trails off, glancing at me, and the question in his eyes leaves my heart beating too fast.

I glance at the road, indicating for him to watch where he’s driving because I want to get home to my son safely. “Let's just focus on the meeting, okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, his full attention on the road. Somehow, that’s not a relief. I know the conversation is going to come up at some point, and I’ll have to tiptoe because too many details will tell him the whole story about who Win’s dad is… him.

I lean back against the seat, closing my eyes. I will fight this pull, I have to. For my son, for our lives that are better off separate. This is just a business trip, nothing more. I repeat the words in my head until they lose meaning, and all that's left is the thumping of my heart.

I unlock the door and offer him a slight smile over my shoulder. The bellhop trails behind with our luggage as we step into the room. It’s as luxurious as the images led me to believe. There’s not a single white wall in the place; over our heads, wooden slats create a warm, inviting ceiling.

The living area boasts plush, velvet sofas in deep jewel tones, and a grand chandelier hangs elegantly from the center of the room, casting a soft, golden glow. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city skyline, the lights twinkling like stars against the night sky.

To the right, a white marble fireplace makes for a cozy, intimate, even romantic feel and a sleek, modern kitchen gleam with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. The bedrooms, separated by sliding glass doors, feature king-sized beds with the whitest of white plush blankets that look like laying on them would be like sleeping on a cloud. I’m not even tired, but I can’t wait to go to bed.

I walk over to the windows, drawn by the view. “It sure is beautiful,” I say, before turning to him. He smiles, joining me at the windows.

“It’s perfect,” he says, standing a little too close for comfort. But I don’t want to move away.

The bellhop discreetly places our luggage by the door and leaves an extra key card with them. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” the bellhop says with a polite nod before leaving us.

I want to beg him to stay, because with every second that passes, the thought of being alone with Lark in a hotel room – even one as large and spacious as this – seems like a worse and worse idea.

I spend the next few minutes exploring the suite, marveling at the attention to detail. He seems to also feel the need to separate, because he begins to hang his neatly-pressed shirts.

The bathroom is spa-like with a deep soaking tub, a rain shower, and plush robes hanging near the door. A bottle of champagne chilling in a metal ice bucket and a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries grace the dining table, a welcome gift from the hotel.

As we settle in, I can’t help the rising uneasiness. I don’t like being away from Win. And being alone with Lark seems like a mistake. A big mistake. Especially since last time we were in a hotel room together… well, I wound up pregnant.

Not this time, I promise myself. Not this time.

“It’s a nice place,” Lark says from behind me, his voice too close for comfort.

“Corporate standard.” My words are clipped as I swallow, fighting the fluttering in my chest. I concentrate on unpacking my suitcase, lining up my toiletries with military precision. Anything to avoid the gaze of – and desire for - the man watching me from where he leans on a doorway like a Greek statue.

I sense him moving, and I stiffen, bracing myself for whatever he might do next. But he only heads to the windows, drawing back the curtains with a casual sweep of his hand. “Good view.”

“Sure.” My voice sounds distant, even to my ears. I can’t let him in, I can’t let him get close. I can’t risk everything. My heart won’t calm down in my chest, and my mouth is so dry I feel like a dying man in a desert.

Lark wanders out of my room and I exhale, trying to breathe normally. Which is impossible with him around.

My phone rings, the sound startling me. Why now? I snatch it up, thumb swiping the screen with a tremor no doubt left over from my frayed nerves with Lark so close.

“Hey, sis!” It's Damon, but his usual cheer is missing and there’s a note of fear in his voice.

“What's wrong?” I'm already imagining the worst, my body frozen in fear.

“Win… he climbed the fridge. Took a spill. I guess the nanny has never seen anything like it and wasn’t paying too much attention when I told her to keep an eye on him so I could use the restroom.”

Panic crushes my throat. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Put it on speaker,” Lark's says, his voice calm and steady.

I do as he says without thinking, holding the phone between us.

“My son climbed the fridge and fell,” I say, catching him up.

“Did you guys call nine-one-one? Or are you taking him to the emergency room?” Lark says into the phone, his tone even, controlled.

“Damon can’t drive,” I say.

“Alisha can,” Damon says.

“The nanny,” I tell Lark, since I know he has no idea who she is.

“Is he awake?” Lark asks.

“Yes, but he’s hurting.”

“Baby, are you okay?” I ask, worry winding around my heart like briar bushes, poky, painful, and tight enough to cut off blood flow.

“Uh-huh. It hurts.”

“You’re being really brave. Did you hit your head, bud?” Lark asks.

“Yes,” Win responds.

“We're coming home.” Lark is already grabbing bags, taking charge.

And it’s a good thing, because I feel frozen in place. What if my son is really hurt?

“Home,” I whisper, all thoughts of work leaving my mind as I worry about the safety and wellbeing of my child. “We’re coming home, Win.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

I end the call after making my brother promise to keep me updated, and the nanny, too. Lark's eyes flick to mine, a question forming. But questions will have to wait; our son needs me.

“I can’t drive,” I whisper, my whole body shaking as we make our way back down to the entrance of the hotel. Lark is already talking with the front desk on his phone, hurrying us out as quickly as possible.

“I can.” Lark’s still so calm.

“I need to get home.” My voice cracks, brittle as thin ice.

Lark's hands land on my shoulders, offering me comfort and bringing me into the moment. “I'll drive, we’ll get there, and we’ll do whatever it takes to make sure your son is safe,” he says. There’s no room for argument, but the thing that sticks in my mind is hearing him say whatever it takes . Those words remind me of the promises I’ve made to myself over the years, promises I’ve stuck to.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my heart in my throat.

We're silent as we rush to the car. He tosses the bags in and gets into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life.

Lark maneuvers through the traffic with a focus that's both terrifying and reassuring. I'm grateful for the silence between us; it gives me a chance to gather the shreds of my composure.

The hospital lights are too bright, the corridors too long. We reach the ER, and there he is—my little man, arm in a sling, but his eyes are bright when they find mine. “Mommy!”

I hurry to his side, pulling him into my arms, careful not to jostle his sling. “Win,” I whisper, holding him close. His small arm – the uninjured one - clings to my neck.

“I’m so sorry,” Alisha says, words bursting from her.

“It’s okay,” I say. I know my son is quick, and I know to make sure I include that he has to be watched closely from now on.

“It’s only a sprain, thank goodness.” The doctor pops in, smiling at us as he walks over to my son again. “The radiologist checked for hairline fractures or breaks and didn’t see anything.”

“Thank God,” I whisper, peppering his forehead with kisses, each one filled with fear that much, much worse could have happened. But it didn’t. He’s okay. Win is okay.

“Thanks for being here, Alisha,” I say, grateful that he had someone he knew with him.

“Of course,” she says, her voice filled with guilt. But I’m not upset.

“These things happen,” I say. “And this little man is never still.” I want her to know that everything is fine.

“Let's get you two home,” Lark says, and I hear an odd note in his voice that has my blood running cold in my veins.

“Thank you,” I say, holding my son tight and wondering how I’ll ever let him go now. Relief leaves me lightheaded, or maybe it's the side effect of fear.

“I already grabbed his car seat from my car,” Alisha says, nodding toward the familiar item resting against a nearby chair.

“Let's go then,” Lark says, and I hear something more in his voice—if he hasn’t figured it out, he’s close, for sure. But I don’t have the space for that worry right now. Right now, I need to hold my son, to make sure he’s safe and knows I’m here when he needs me, always.

As we leave the hospital behind, I lean on Lark's strength, feeling oddly secure in his silent presence. We can talk later. Right now, I just need to calm my fears.

*

The door clicks behind us, the familiar sound of home echoing in the huge open space. I carefully place Win on his feet, not letting go until he does. His grip on me tightens, then relaxes as we stand in the living room.

The scent of vanilla lingers in the air, and I inhale, glad to be out of the dry, stale hospital air.

Damon rolls out, checking in on Win, who runs over to give him a one-armed hug and share the news that it’s a sprain and he has to be careful, and the person who took “pictures” – x-rays – of his arm gave him an ice pop.

Damon listens to the animated recount of events, but his gaze shifts to me, then Lark. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Damon says before leaving the room, a calculating look on his face.

“Come sit down, buddy, please,” I say, reaching out to Win. He walks over, his stride long and playful as he swings one arm but keeps the other tucked. When he sits, I fluff the pillows around him.

Lark hovers, his gaze flicking between Win and me, a strange new distance in his eyes.

“Can I get either of you anything?” His voice is low, careful, as if he's walking on broken glass.

“No, we're good, thank you.” I force a smile, but it feels stiff on my lips.

Lark nods, but he doesn't move to leave. Instead, his eyes fix on Win, studying him with an intensity that makes my stomach churn. Win, oblivious to the tension, wiggles to get comfortable.

“Mommy, look!” Win attempts to reach for the toy car on the coffee table, but as he twists, I see him wince. “Oopsie.”

“Careful, honey.” My fingers brush his hair back, my heart contracting at the sight of his small face scrunched up with pain.

“Does it hurt?” Lark's question is directed at Win, but his eyes never leave mine.

“Just a little,” Win says in his bravest big boy voice.

Lark steps closer, the polished marble under his feet making him look taller somehow. He squats down to Win's level and holds his gaze. “You're pretty tough, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” Win nods, and I can’t help but smile at how dang cute he is.

“Win has always been adventurous.” The words slip out before I can stop them, my attempt at trying to keep things normal in this charged moment.

“Yeah?” Lark's eyebrow arches.

“Like his dad,” I add softly, instantly regretting the comparison.

“His dad must be brave too then.” Somehow, the words feel more like an accusation than a statement, but I’m not ready to hear that.

“Something like that.” My throat tightens. I hate lying to him. I hate this secret I’m keeping. Now that he’s here, the whole situation feels… slimy. I know why Damon took off in such a hurry – I bet he wanted nothing to do with the uncomfortable tension in the air.

Lark stands, looking down at Win with an expression I can’t read. Then his gaze shifts back to me, searching for a truth I’m not ready to share. I feel naked under his intense stare, exposed, even. It's as though he's sifting through my memories, picking out the pieces that fit together too neatly.

“Is there anything else you need?” Lark's tone is steady, but his eyes betray him. I can feel the doubt and suspicion rolling off him like mist of early-morning mountains.

“No, really, you've done enough.” I could kick myself for my choice of words, but it is what it is. I wrap my arm around Win, pulling him close.

“Alright.” Lark hesitates, then gives Win a gentle ruffle on the head before walking toward the door. “Take care of that arm, buddy.”

“I will. Bye-bye!” Win waves with his good arm, and Lark offers a small smile in return. Then his gaze shifts to me and my gut twists up tight. What I’m doing, keeping his son from him… it isn’t right. I’ve made a huge mistake.

I can't tell him the truth. I just can't. But as I hold my son, the secret feels heavier than ever, a planet pressing down on my shoulders with so much force I might just be crushed under the weight, because I sure as heck can’t breathe.