Page 15

Lara

Candle flames dance like tall grasses in summer breezes, their soft glow illuminating the darkness of the upper level of the exclusive restaurant, Lux, Lark brought us to.

Overhead, the glass roof lets in the silvery moonlight and the quiet of the space is broken only by the delicate piano music playing from somewhere.

The place is like a scene from a dream, and we’re alone.

“How did you do this?” I ask, my voice tiny.

“I rented the whole place for a night and had them close it down so we’d be alone.” His intense green eyes stand out even more with his dark suit. He’s so handsome I could cry. Not that I’d want to smudge the makeup I’d applied with a careful hand. At least any mascara that landed on this dress wouldn’t be obvious; I’d chosen a little black number that’s a touch too short for my liking and shows off far too much of my thighs. But we’re alone, so I’m not too worried.

“For you,” he says, offering me a bouquet of yellow roses, baby’s breath, and pretty blue puffball flowers I don’t recognize with a gentle tilt of his hand.

“They’re beautiful, thank you,” I say, touching one of the blue flowers with a fingertip, only to discover the tiny flowers that make up the ball are fuzzy.

“Shall we?” He gestures to the table set for two, a private spot in the middle of the loft area.

“Sure.” My voice steadies as I follow him, my heels clicking on the floor.

We settle into our seats, the clink of fine china and the rustle of fabric filling the silence. I glance up, only to be caught in Lark’s intense gaze. It pins me, holds me captive. There's something unreadable there, a depth that invites and warns all at once.

“It’s a beautiful night,” I say, trying to sound casual, as if I can ignore the tightness in my chest.

“Perfect for a dance with a beautiful woman,” he replies, a corner of his mouth lifting.

I want to make some joke about him finding me a pretty woman to dance with, but I’m far too nervous. “Maybe after dinner.”

“Of course.”

I never would have expected a gesture like this, and I’m at a loss. This feels like a date, but is it? Is there some chance that he and I can be something more? Maybe we could— no. I’m being a silly romantic. If I entertain a relationship with him, I’ll lose myself in the process. I know that.

Needing to escape for a moment, I slide my chair back, the soft scrape the only sound. I make my way to the windows and Lark follows. Side by side, we look out over the city. The lights all around us twinkle like we’re floating in a galaxy all our own.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, before glancing over and catching sight of his profile. He’s handsome against the skyline, and the scent of his cologne warms my lungs.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice is confident, smooth as the velvet sky above us.

“It must've cost a fortune to close down the whole place.” I can't help but let out a soft laugh, colored with disbelief. The restaurant, usually bustling with life, is now quiet and surreal.

“That doesn't matter.” He turns, and that gaze—so intense, so full of something I don’t dare name—captures mine. “I wanted it to just be us tonight.”

A shiver runs through me, desire and caution tangling like ivy on old stone walls. I want to lean into that gaze, to accept what he’s offering. But that wouldn’t be smart, for either of us. We work together now, and mixing business and pleasure is a really bad idea. Besides, we both agreed to let the past stay there. But Lark seems intent on building a future.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say, hoping my humor masks the shiver and my worry that he’ll see right through me.

“Everywhere?” he asks, arching an eyebrow and making his thoughts clear.

A blush warms my cheeks and I look away, taking in the beauty laid out before us. How can I respond to that when all I want is for him to pull me close and kiss me? Coming out with him was a mistake. But when he asked to take me to dinner, I didn’t think we’d be alone in this intimate of a space. I thought he wanted to talk business, or about our son, or to make plans about being a father. This feels like none of those things.

“Are you trying to impress me?” My words are playful, but my heart pounds so hard I feel faint. There’s no way he can’t hear my pulse, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe.” A half-smile plays on his lips. “Is it working?”

“Perhaps,” I say, feeling the pull of his presence. “But don't think we should take this further.” Why does it hurt to say the words? I’m making the right choice… it shouldn’t make breathing painful.

“I wouldn't dream of it.” His reply is soft, and almost certainly a total lie. He didn’t bring me here with the intention of talking business or about our son. This is a date.

Thankfully, we’re interrupted by the waiter. He places a bottle of wine on the table with a soft thud. Two glasses follow and he looks everywhere but at us, as if trying not to invade our privacy. He vanishes into the shadows, and Lark leads me back to the table.

We sit and Lark's fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, expertly tilting it over two crystal glasses. The wine pours, a rich crimson ribbon catching the flicker of candlelight.

“Chateau Margaux,” he says, as if the name holds some significance. I don’t drink a lot of wine – or much alcohol in general – so I’m not an expert by any means.

Still, I give a polite nod, watching the dance of shadows on the black tablecloth. My fingers brush against the stem of my glass, feeling the cool, smooth glass and wishing I wasn’t so warm. Though I doubt the heat I feel has anything to do with the temperature.

“Why are you doing this, Lark?” I ask, the question bursting out of me. I didn’t know I needed answers, but boy do I.

He pauses, his glass halfway to his lips, and searches my face. “Isn't it obvious?” he replies, his eyebrows twitching as he places the glass back on the table without a taste. “I want to make things right between us.”

I didn’t know things weren’t right between us.

My confusion must be showing on my face, because he smiles and reaches out to put his hand on mine.

I didn’t expect this — not a date, not the seclusion that makes the evening feel like we're the only two people in the world. There's an elephant in the room, and it's the thought of him here for me instead of our son. It squeezes my heart, but I can't look away from his gaze, intense even in the low light.

“Make things right?” I ask, feeling a tight smile pull at the corners of my mouth. “Or is this your way of warming me up? Softening the blow before you take our son?” The words come out cooler than I intend.

He leans in, a frown creasing his brow. “I wouldn’t use tactics like that with you.” His voice lowers, sincere or convincingly feigning sincerity. “This is about us, too, not just him. Though he is a part of everything.”

The desire I've tried so hard to bury rises within me, a persistent sensation of heat pooling low in my belly as my body demands he come closer and touch me. That feeling has never really faded, no matter how much I've wished it away.

With a sigh, I let go of the breath I didn't know I'd been holding. “I remember what we had, Lark,” I say. “It was supposed to be a harmless fling, then we’d never see each other again. Then I learned too much about you…” I bite down on my lip to stop the flow of words.

His hand, still on mine, feeling warm and safe, gently squeezes. “I'm not asking for forgiveness, and I can’t change the past,” he says softly. "I’m asking to be part of your life, and our son's, too.”

Guilt pricks at me, sharp and bitter. I'd cut him out completely, shielded myself behind walls I built to keep myself and my child safe. His child. Our child. Yet here he is, still trying to get over, under, or through the defenses I'd painstakingly constructed.

“Can we do that?” I whisper, looking down at our intertwined hands, the contact sending a jolt of warmth up my arm and through my chest.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he says, hope flooding his words. “But we can try, and that’s all I’m asking.”

The clink of dishes has us jolting apart as the waiter comes by, placing plates before us before vanishing again.

We wait until we’re certain he’s gone out of earshot, picking up our silverware as I study the delicious salmon and risotto that’s been beautifully plated. It’s almost a shame to eat the food and destroy how pretty it is. But my stomach grumbles in protest and I take a quick bite.

The food melts in my mouth and the flavors are an explosion of perfection. No wonder this place is so exclusive… the food is incredible.

But I don’t just want to eat in silence and ignore Lark. “Tell me about you, Lark. The parts I missed.”

He pauses, his fork halfway to his lips, and sets it down with deliberate slowness. A shadow darkens his powerful features, and a barricade rises behind those bright green eyes. “There’s not much to tell.” The way he deflects and flashes a half-smile tells me that there is so, so much to tell. “Dad passed when I was young. Mom and I... we've always been close.”

His words are sparse, but they carry a lot of weight. I sense the pain lurking beneath the surface, even though his fa?ade doesn’t slip.

“Your mother is wonderful,” I say, remembering her treats and how she’d made the whole office happy the day she’d come in.

He nods, a genuine softness in his features for a moment. “She is. I’m lucky to have her in my life.”

Then, with the subtlety of a charging bull, he turns the conversation toward our son. “Winston. What's he like?”

A swell of pride warms me as I speak of our child. “He's high-energy, fun-loving, and sweet. He has your smile and eyes.” Even as my heart swells, it constricts, too. Lark's presence means sharing—splitting time, splitting memories. It stings more than I expect.

“Sounds like he's going to keep us on our toes,” Lark says, a twinkle of amusement lighting up his expression.

“Definitely.” My laughter sounds oddly flat, almost sad, as if the emotions warring within me are tipping toward sadness.

When the last bite of dessert—a chocolate cherry mousse—is gone, the sweet taste still lingering, I breathe a sigh. I’ve had a good time with Lark. This has been the perfect end to an unexpected evening.

Lark rises and offers his hand with gentle grace, eyes alight with something warm, something dangerous.

“May I have this dance?” His voice, a soft growl, sends a flutter through me.

My mouth opens, but no words come out. I want to say yes. I want to say no. I want to stall and try to figure out what the heck to say or do next. This isn't part of the plan.

“Okay,” I whisper, my traitorous mouth making the choice for me even though my head and heart say this is a very bad idea. My hand finds his and I feel a jolt of electricity at the contact.

He leads me, steady and calm, to the middle of the open space of the loft. His touch is light on my waist, pulling me into his arms. His right hand and my left entwine, our fingers laced as he places his other hand on my hip.

Nothing else matters as we move as one, our steps small and intimate. He’s an expert at leading me, and I follow with more grace than I ever thought I might. I’m not used to following. I’m used to leading, but with him, this feels natural.

“Thank you,” I whisper, unsure if I'm grateful for the dance or the way he's made me feel alive again.

Lark only smiles and I rest my head on his chest, loving the closeness and the rhythm of his heart under my ear.

His fingertips send warmth creeping across my waist and my whole body is screaming for him to do more, to touch me, to take me, to give me a taste of the passion we’d shared all those years ago. Would it still be as incredible?

“Relax,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear.

A laugh tries to bubble up, but I push it back down. Relax? Easier said than done. I glance up at him, a question on the tip of my tongue. But my voice won’t work.

I should push away, put space between us. Every instinct screams that I’m making a huge mistake, one I’ll regret. Yet here I am, shifting closer, my arm winding around the curve of his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is soft against my skin, and the scent of his cologne is as fresh as the crisp night air.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice rumbling.

I nod, because “okay” doesn't even begin to cover the chaos boiling away within me. My heart beats like a wounded, wild animal, and I’m hungry for something other than food. But above all, I’m hyper-aware of the spaces where our bodies meet.

“Good.”

We dance on, and I let myself a moment of fantasy. We could make this work. Maybe we are right for one another. Maybe I need to just let go and let him into my life – clearly he’s meant to be here.

“Remember this?” His voice is low, intimate, and I instinctively know he’s talking about his touch, the reaction he stirs within me.

“How could I forget?” I whisper.

“Then why fight it?”

“Because...” The truth claws at my throat, and I swallow hard. “...it's complicated.”

“Isn't it always?” His chuckle vibrates through me.

I rest there, against him, thinking all the thoughts I should be saying. That we can’t do this. That we work together. That the past was likely just a fluke. That we’re both very different people than we were back then. That it would be difficult to explain to Win that his dad and I are back together when he’s only meeting his dad for the first time.

I should leave. Run. But instead, I promise myself just a few more minutes. We can stop anytime – just not yet.

I've missed him. The laughter, the lightness, the reckless abandon. But it’s foolish for me to think there’s anything beyond our crazy chemistry.

“Tonight was unexpected,” I say, feeling grateful because I am enjoying myself and have been, even if this is all a mistake.

“Good unexpected, I hope,” he says, stepping closer, his warmth radiating over me.

“Very good.” It's the truth, even if I regret all of this later.

Our dance slows, and he draws me in, his hands firm on my waist. The floral scent of the nearby blossoms mingles with his scent and our meals, a mouthwatering combination. His eyes search mine, and whatever he finds there seems to embolden him.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispers, his breath a caress against my skin.

“So do it,” I say.

A slight smile tugs the corners of his lips and he leans down. His lips meet mine, soft and full, sweet and filled with heat. For a fleeting heartbeat, everything is perfect—the hurt, the past, the uncertainties—they all dissolve.

The waiter comes by, and we regretfully pull apart. Lark walks closer to him, murmuring something to him, and I catch the words “to go” and “for two” before he comes back to me, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

“What did you do?” I ask, feeling curiosity.

“Ordered something for the road,” he says, leaving me more confused, not less.

I frown, about to ask more questions, but he continues, “For our son and your brother.”

My heart skips. He remembers, cares enough to think of not only our son, but my brother, too. “You didn't have to do that.”

“Maybe not.” He shrugs, but there’s a tenderness in his eyes that wasn't there before. “But I wanted to.”

The drive home is silent and all I can think about is our closeness earlier. Dancing with him. When we pull up to my door, the evening's magic feels like it’s coming to a close… and that’s a letdown.

I hesitate outside the car, the moment stretching between us as he takes my arm to walk me to my door.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank me by enjoying it,” he replies, his tone low and smooth.

I expect him to kiss me—deep, hungry, desperate like before—but instead, he cups my face gently, leans in, and his lips brush my cheek with a feather-light touch.

The heat from his kiss lingers on my skin as I watch him walk away. My hand lifts unconsciously, fingers tracing the tingling path his lips left behind.

As the night swallows his car, one thought finalizes in my mind, never to be changed again: There's no escaping Lark. No escaping the way he makes me feel, the way he sees through my defenses, the way he quietly claims a space in my life—for himself, and for our son.

And maybe, just maybe, I don't want to escape at all.