Page 9

Lara

How is it that after all this time, his stare – that’s somehow even more intense – has so much effect on me?

I thought I could be impartial, forget the past, but my body didn’t forget Lark.

Sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden glow over the marble floors of my office. He’d been sitting right there, across from me, so recently I can still smell the thick, piney scent of his cologne if I move just right.

I stand in the center of the room, surrounded by the proof of my incredible success, the millions in my bank, but things feel different.

“Whatever it takes,” I say to myself.

And I’d meant those words, spoken so many years ago in my bathroom right after learning I was pregnant with Lark’s child. Of course, that’s a secret I plan on keeping, now and forever. The people in my life know to guard that secret to protect my son.

But the Lark that showed up today… he wasn’t the same man. And as I take out my phone and check his social media, I see that he’s really cleaned up his image. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s less dangerous, it just means he’s learned to hide his dealings better.

As long as none of his trouble creates issues here at the company, I don’t give a damn what he does in his down time. That’s none of my business.

A sharp, insistent knock on the door has me glancing up from the computer screen on my desk. “Come in,” I call out, wondering who is at my office door and how I can help.

Shana pokes her head through the gap, her sleek brown ponytail swinging side to side. “So? How did it go with Lark?” The curiosity in her voice is mirrored by her big blue eyes. She walks in and sits down across from me, her pretty blouse shining under the lights of my office. Her pencil skirt is no-nonsense, and I think about how far we’ve come in five years, starting up this tech company together when so many people told us women don’t belong in this industry.

I lean back in my chair, fingers interlocking in my lap. “I hired him.”

Her eyebrows shoot up in both surprise and skepticism. “Really?”

“Really,” I say. I guess she didn’t expect me to actually hire him, no matter how good he looked on paper. Of course, he looks amazing in real life, too—I shut those thoughts down and continue talking. “He's qualified, intelligent, and an asset to the team.” But even as I list his professional attributes, doubt fills me. Not doubt at his abilities, but my ability to work with him and keep things strictly professional. The man makes me want him to do dirty things to me right here on my desk.

“And you think you can keep things... professional?” Shana leans forward, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

I nod, once, firmly. “Absolutely. I made that very clear to him.”

“Right.” She doesn't look convinced. Her lips purse slightly, eyes narrowing as if she's reading between the lines of a script I didn't know we were following. And I wonder if she remembers how much he affected me back then. How strong the pull between us was. Heck, I think I’d forgotten until I saw him again, but I need to keep that part of myself under control, because that’s the only option.

A memory fills my mind—the heat of a tropical sun, conversations and laughter, the magnetic pull of Lark’s gaze. The way his hands knew every inch of me, the raw power in those muscly forearms… I push the thoughts away. That was then. This is now. That part of my life – our lives – is over.

“Shana, it's just business. Nothing more.” I adjust my laptop before me, pretending to read something important on the glowing screen.

“Of course.” But there's a hint of worry in her tone, and I know I haven’t convinced her one bit.

“Remember how much he used to drink?” I blurt out, then immediately regret it. Why am I bringing this up? Then it occurs to me – if I point out his faults and flaws, she’ll have to recognize I’m not interested in him.

“He was on vacation. Everyone drinks on vacation,” Shana says, her gaze unfocusing as if remembering how much we drank then, too. Which was a heck of a lot more than we typically do. Her attention returns to me. “But his drinking is none of our business, right? As long as it doesn't affect his work.”

“Right.” It’s none of my business. Except for the tiny, irrational part of me that worries. Lark had really gotten to me all those years ago. What’s to stop that from happening again? Can I really stand firm and not let him in? I have to. There’s no other option.

“Okay.” Shana pushes off my desk, relaxing back in her chair while studying my face in search of answers I don’t have. “Just remember, office romances are always a bad idea. Always .”

I manage a tight smile. “Noted.” The last thing I want is another complication in my life.

I lean back in my chair and let out a slow breath as Shana’s expression softens.

“How's Win doing?” she asks, a smile on her face as she asks about my son.

The mention of his name brings a smile onto my lips, warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of my little boy. “He's good. Growing too fast.” I picture his bright, infectious laughter, his green eyes sparkling with mischief—Lark's eyes. I’d named him Winston, but Win suits him, because he is a win in every sense of the word.

“Sounds like he's keeping you on your toes,” she says with a laugh. “Maybe we should do dinner on Thursday.”

We often had “family dinner nights” where Shana, myself, my brother, and win all sat down as a family. Shana might not be related by blood, but she’s the family we picked, and she’s closer than pretty much anyone else in our lives.

“Always.” My heart swells as I think about him and how much I love everything about him. Even the parts that remind me of Lark. “He's curious about everything. Just yesterday, he asked me why the moon follows us.” I laugh, thinking about the concern in his face as he asked if the moon is a stalker.

I smile as I think about how I’d had to explain that it’s simply an optical illusion. Then we’d dived right into other kinds of optical illusions and spent the night tricking our brains and having fun.

“He’s a smart kid.” The fond sparkle in her eye has me nodding.

“I swear he gets it from his uncle,” I say. “Speaking of Damon… Those two are thick as thieves. Damon taught him how to make paper airplanes last weekend. You should've seen the house.” I laugh. My brother’s time spent in a chair have led him to learn everything he can over the years. He’s intelligent, and driven to be able to answer all of Win’s questions. And I love that about him.

“I bet you made him clean it all up.” Shana grins, probably imagining the chaos.

“Definitely. With a little help from Gigi.” My housecleaner works so darn hard to keep up, and that’s why I give her huge bonuses… especially after fiascos like the paper airplane incident. “But it's worth it, seeing them together. Damon's been amazing with him.”

“I’m sure Damon loves the company. Did you ever find a nurse he’s willing to work with?”

I shake my head. “He insists he doesn’t need anyone, but I’m so afraid something will happen when I’m not home, you know?” I love my brother and don’t want anything to happen to him. I’d never forgive myself.

Shana reaches out and pats my arm. “You’re doing great by him. All you can do is voice your concerns; you can’t make him accept them.”

She’s right, but he’s such a stubborn ass. “And it’s good to hear they're both doing well.”

“Thanks, Shana.” I meet her gaze, grateful for the moment of peace she's given me in a morning filled with stress and worries mostly focused on Lark's return. “It means a lot. How have things been with you?”

She shrugs. “Same old, same old.” I know she doesn’t get along with her family much. Her mom burned bridges and her family assumed the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It’s sad, really. Sometimes they invite her for holidays, but she spends them with us instead, saying we’re more like family than those strangers.

“I’d love to do dinner on Thursday,” I say, answering her question from before.

She nods. “Anytime,” she says, standing up. “You've got a great family, Lara.”

“I couldn't agree more; and you’re part of it.” A soft smile crosses her lips and I smile back. After she leaves, I study the fiddle-leaf fig that stands in the corner. Its broad leaves reach for the ceiling, leaning toward the light streaming in from the windows.

I stand up and make my way to the plant, then trail a finger over the glossy surface of one leaf, appreciating the simple act of caring for something that asks for so little in return. Maybe I’m crazy, but I talk to my plants. I love them, and they thrive here.

“Don’t you?” I ask. “Thrive with a bit of light, water, and love.” I give the plant an affectionate stroke. “If only it were always that straightforward.”

With a sigh, I stand at the windows a moment, looking down over the city before making my way back to my desk. The polished surface is uncluttered, save for a sleek laptop. I’d hidden the single framed photo in a desk drawer when Lark came in. It was a photo taken on a day when the world seemed lighter, easier. The picture of me and Win is a freeze-frame of joy in a sea of calculated perfection.

I crave predictability and order. So why did I invite the chaos that is Lark in? The true disorder is this tangle of restless emotions stirring within me since sitting down with Lark.

I pivot slowly, taking in every detail of the space I've created. This is my space, my home, my safety. This is something I’ve created through hard work, sacrifice, sleepless nights and too many tears to count. It's not just an office—it's a part of who I am, a success, calm, controlled, and well-cared-for.

Ready or not, this is where I find out what I’m really made of.

I tap the pen against the contract, each click echoing my racing heartbeat. The ink on the dotted line is an offer for me to seal this choice with a sense of finality. But given that I’ve read and re-read the contract and my lawyer’s notes about it over a dozen times and remember nothing about the deal, I can’t sign. Not yet.

“Am I crazy?” I ask myself, my gaze drifting to the photo on my desk. It's turned away from prying eyes. It might be smarter to hide it in a drawer, a protective measure, like all the others I've taken.

The office around me is silent, save for the distant hum of the city beyond my windows. I need to get my head on straight, because I’m already losing myself and Lark hasn’t even started yet. What is wrong with me? I’ve always found solace in this space, but now I just feel caged.

I need to focus. I force my gaze back to the laptop screen. Numbers and projections play out before me, but they might as well be in another language. My mind rebels, slipping away to thoughts of Lark; his careless charm, his rare smile, two nights that never faded from my memory.

“Stop it,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head as if to rattle away the memories. “I need to work.”

But even as I try to concentrate, my vision blurs with the weight of what-if's and could-have-beens. The email that confirmed his hiring glares at me as if asking me what I’m thinking. I have no idea at this point. That he’s an asset to the team?

“Can you keep a secret?” I whisper to the empty room. The irony isn't lost on me—I'm asking an empty room a question meant for the man who doesn’t even know he has a son. A son with his eyes, his smile, his little mannerisms.

That’s enough. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against marble.

There’s nothing more I can do tonight. But I’m betting that, after I sleep on things, all these problems will vanish or become clearer by morning. I can handle this, I’m sure of it. I just need to have faith in myself and to be smart about how I approach him as an employee.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll face things with a rested mind and time spent preparing myself. But right now, I’m going to go home to the two people I love more than anything in this world.

The door swings open and two tiny arms envelop me in the world's biggest hug. “Mommy!” I inhale my son’s scent, remembering that everything is worth it for him. I can get through anything for him.

“Hey, buddy!” I scoop him up as his laughter chases away the day's worries. “Where’s uncle Damon?” I ask and my son points to the living room. As he does so, music starts playing, Win’s favorite song.

“Look, Mommy, like this!” Win’s little feet patter on the marble floor of my luxury penthouse, a little dance of pure joy.

We’d needed space before, and now we have it.

I mimic my son’s moves in an exaggerated and goofy manner, earning a string of giggles. His green eyes shine bright, that usual intensity melting into delight at my antics. He throws his head back, all untamed happiness, and starts belting out the words – or what he thinks are the words – to the song.

I watch him spin in place, still singing, a squeal following the movement.

“Round and round we go!” I say, watching our reflections in the window turn into a dizzying blur of smiles and pure, undiluted joy.

He’s still singing and dancing, his little body feeling the music so deeply I can’t help but be jealous at the depth of his enjoyment. Right now, he has no stress, no worries of adulthood. He gets to be a child, to have fun, and for the moment, so do I.

He puts both arms out, running in a little circle like a plane. I follow his lead, making plane sounds as he continues singing at the top of his little lungs. The dance changes to steps that suspiciously remind me of the hokey-pokey, but I’m not about to call him out on his artistic style.

When the music finally ends, we collapse together onto the floor, a heap of giggles and tangled limbs. He nestles into my chest, small breaths evening out as the last notes fade away.

“I love you, Mommy,” he says, eyes closing.

“I love you more, my little man. To the ends of the earth and back.” My heart swells, bigger than the skyline, the city, or even my fears. Being his mom is the greatest gift I could ever hope for. And in this moment with him, nothing else matters but us and that means everything to me.