“One goodbye kiss,” he murmurs.
If I thought my nerves were on fire before, it’s nothing to now. I feel like a live wire, electric from head to toe. And the man hasn’t even touched me yet.
“You can say no,” he quickly adds. “I just—”
“Yes,” I interrupt, before he talks himself out of it. “Just one,” I clarify, more for myself than for him.
Then he’s moving. Closing that final tantalizing gap between us. His arm snakes around my waist, so familiar, and he pulls me taut against him, crushing me against those washboard abs and tight muscles the way I’ve always loved. His mouth collides with mine, and his kiss is searing hot, hotter than in any of my dreams or memories, because this is the real thing, this is Lark in my arms again.
My hand drifts up to his cheek. He’s cupping mine too, his thumb grazing the corner of my lips even as we continue to kiss, tilting our heads and letting our lips entwine as he deepens the kiss. The tips of his fingertips brush my temples, my hairline, the edge of my cheek.
I want this moment to last forever.
If I close my eyes, I can almost convince myself—for the span of a few heartbeats that somehow feel like minutes—that it will.
Then he pulls back, steps away from me, and the cold air of his apartment rushes between us cruelly once more. There are only a few inches between us again, but it’s a gulley now, a huge valley I cannot allow myself to cross ever again.
My lips are still tingling, hot to the touch. My hand drifts up, my fingertips grazing them without thinking.
Lark watches me, his eyes shadowed. Unreadable. Still filled with the same pain that fills my own. Then, with a Herculean effort, I shut my eyes. Stare at the floor instead.
When I look up again, Lark pats his book, still face down on the counter. “Well.” He clears his throat, and am I imagining things, or does his voice sound tighter when he speaks again? I know mine is practically squeezed shut right now, like there’s a fist around it. “If there’s nothing else you wanted to discuss, I’d probably better finish reading this. And you had better get some rest,” he adds, before forcing a bright, fake-seeming smile. “After all, you’ve got your big photoshoot tomorrow.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” I glance from him to the book and back, then start to back away toward the elevator. My pulse feels insane, erratic. My palms are tinged with sweat, my nerves singed from contact. Somehow, though, I manage to keep my voice relatively steady. “Um. Then I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you there.” He waves, and I hit the button to descend down to the ground floor and out of this mess. Then his voice stops me. “Oh, Cassidy?”
I half-turn, just as the elevator doors open. But I don’t get on. Not yet. I glance back at Lark, who’s smiling a real, genuine smile this time, one that stretches across his whole face.
He lights up, whenever he smiles like that. It reminds me all over again why I felt so attached to him so quickly. “If you’re nervous,” he says, “don’t be. You’re going to knock it out of the park tomorrow. After all, you’re becoming a regular pro at this.”
I laugh a little. “Yeah, right.”
“I mean it. You’ll see. Before long it’ll be your face on all the promo material, right up there beside the models.” He winks.
Now I laugh even harder. But Lark doesn’t relent.
“I’ll bet you,” he calls.
“Goodnight, Lark,” I tell him. But at least I’m smiling this time, as the doors shut behind me. And when I step out of his building once more, waving to the doorman who—I wonder if I’m imagining this or not? —does seem surprised to see me leaving again so soon… I wonder if maybe my therapist was right. If there could be something to this whole letting go thing.
But the moment the cold air outside hits me, I have to squeeze my eyes shut. Whatever calm I’d hoped to feel has been burned away by the feeling of Lark’s lips imprinted on mine, the taste of his mouth.
In spite of myself, all I want to do is go right back in there and do it all over again.
17
Cassidy
The next morning, I wake up, surprisingly dream-free for once. But the moment my eyes open, I’m already picturing the look on Lark’s face when he told me he’d stop pursuing me. How much it seemed to pain him.
How much it hurt me, too.
Not to mention that fucking kiss. Our last one ever. And he certainly kissed me like a dying man, like he’d never be able to touch me again.
Because he won’t be able to, I remind myself. That was the deal. One last kiss, and we’re done.
This is for the best, I tell myself, again. It’s getting harder and harder to remember that. Then I roll out of bed and pace into my shower to get ready for the big photoshoot today.
It’s not until I’m heading out the door, rooting through my purse to swap my wallet over to a sleeker, more professional bag, that I find the small ball of silk rolled up at the bottom. Shit. All that and I didn’t even remember to give his tie back after all.
I hold it for a moment, studying the fabric, my fingers tracing over it. I wonder if maybe this was my subconscious trying to tell me something. Telling me that I’m not as ready to let go just yet as I think I am—as I should be.
Then I push the tie to the bottom of my bag and square my shoulders, forcing myself to forget about it. I’ve got bigger things to worry about today. Namely, acing this shoot.
I do one last check to make sure I have all the supplies I’ll need, and then I head out the door. The studio’s easy to find—I recognize it as the same space we used the first time. Marcel’s studio. A slow smile spreads across my face as I pull into the parking lot. Now I understand why Lark told me I’d be working with my favorite photographer.
Inside, Marcel’s in a flurry of activity as per usual. I watch him flit between camera equipment, the makeup stands and the artists standing at the ready, and the line of models waiting to get done up. Before he catches sight of me, though, I notice him stop by one stand in particular, and trade a long, slow kiss with a handsome guy whose cheekbones nearly rival Marcel’s own.
I’m grinning by the time Marcel makes it to my side for a tight hug. “Someone’s enjoying himself,” I point out, grinning. I watch Marcel’s guy line up for the makeup stand, and realize he’s one of the models when he strips off his shirt to reveal some seriously cut abs.
“I couldn’t let you have all the fun, could I?” He nudges my side, winking. Then I follow his gaze across the room to Lark, standing in deep conversation with the set manager next to the coffee cart.
My heart does a weird little flip—rising and sinking again all in one motion. The same way it always seems to around Lark, a regular roller coaster of emotions. I want to know if he’s still thinking about our kiss too. If it meant as much to him as it did to me. But I can’t exactly bring it up, after what we agreed.
“Oh, uh…” I tear my gaze from Lark. “Lark and I decided we’re better off as friends.”
Marcel’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “You both decided this?” he asks, with another long look in Lark’s direction, as if he knows something I don’t.
“Um, yeah.” I clear my throat. After another piercing look, I throw up my hands, relenting. “Okay, fine, I told him no, and he agreed to stop pursuing me. Asking me out. Whatever you want to call it.”
“I knew it.” Marcel’s eyes narrow. “That boy is more hooked on you than I’ve ever seen him on anybody. No way he would’ve suggested a friends-only thing.”
“Can we change the subject, please?” I fold my arms, tilting my head back and resisting a groan. I already went through all of this with Lark, and it was hard enough. Hearing Marcel, one of Lark’s friends, talk about how into me Lark was, isn’t helping.
We made our bed. Or rather, we made our two, separate beds. Time to lie in them. Alone.
“Sure, honey. You ready for today? I was thinking we do same as our first shoot, but a bit more drama on the product
. We’ve showcased your demurer looks so far, the barely-there makeup styles. It’d be fun to get a little extra today.”
My cheeks flush. “Uh… how extra, exactly?” I do make some bright colors too—I’ve always liked them myself, for big nights out. But I didn’t picture super over-the-top makeup being my brand, per se.
He laughs at my expression. “Nothing you aren’t comfortable with, don’t worry.” Marcel loops an arm through mine and leads me toward the studio lights. “Trust me,” he purrs, and I can hardly do otherwise, when he’s dragging me around like this.
But, I realize, I do anyway. Trust him. It’s a pleasantly surprising discovery, since I’m not used to trusting my work in the hands of anyone else. Now I’ve learned how to trust not only Marcel, but Lark, too, with their parts in making my brand a success.
We’re halfway through the shoot when a door slams. I glance up to see Sheryl entering, and my eyebrows rise. I hadn’t realized she’d be coming today. I raise a hand to wave to her, and she offers me a tight smile and a curt nod before beelining past where I’m stationed at the edge of the stage, without even stopping to say anything.
My stomach tightens. I wonder what’s wrong? Because it’s clear from her face that something is.
I try to focus on the shoot, but my attention wanders in the direction Sheryl went. I spot Lark standing beside her now, still in his spot backstage. He hasn’t tried to approach me all morning, aside from when I went for a coffee, and he handed me one, already prepared the way I like it, with a rueful smile on his face and a “Good morning,” that sounded like it cost him more energy to say than it would have to swallow.
I know exactly how he feels. I feel the same way. My whole body is burning for him. Every time we lock eyes, it’s a reminder of our conversation last night. Of how devastated he looked by the end of it. Of how much it hurt to walk away after that kiss.
It was the same way I felt, too.
Now, however, as I watch Sheryl and Lark talking—or, more accurately, as I watch Sheryl talking and Lark staring at the floor, his arms crossed, I wonder if maybe some of his mood isn’t related to me after all.
Or maybe it is, whispers a nasty voice at the back of my head. The one I can’t get to shut up these days. Maybe Sheryl found out about you two, and she’s here to tell him off for sleeping with a client behind her back. Maybe you did all that, finally walked away from him, only to ruin their marriage after all.
The hard knot in my stomach calcifies into guilt.
“Um, excuse me for a minute?” I whisper, sotto voce, to Marcel.
He nods, barely even noticing me at his shoulder. He gets like this as soon as the cameras click on and the action starts: totally focused on his work.
Or… perhaps not entirely his work, I realize as I notice who’s on stage at the moment. The model Marcel kissed earlier.
I stifle a fleeting smile and leave him to it. Then I skirt around the stage the long way, toward the bathrooms. My plan is to hide in there, catch my breath, and hope either Sheryl leaves or her and Lark’s conversation calms down in the meantime. Any way I can avoid a confrontation with the pair of them, the better.
But I’m only halfway there when I glance toward the coffee stand to make sure they haven’t spotted me, and I freeze. They’re not backstage anymore. At least, not anywhere I can see.
I hesitate, torn. This is what I wanted, for them to leave. Or at least to have their fight somewhere I didn’t need to witness. Now, though…
My nerves prick at me. Something doesn’t seem right. Lark’s posture earlier, maybe, or the way Sheryl totally blanked me. If this is about me… If this is all my fault… shouldn’t I be trying to make it right, if I can?
Maybe I can talk to Sheryl. Tell her I came onto Lark, that I pursued him, and it was a temporary thing, it’s over now. I won’t stand between them anymore.
I pace behind the stage, eyes and ears peeled for any signs of the couple. It doesn’t take long before I hear the rumble of raised voices, muffled by a door. I trail the sound until I find an office with Marcel’s name on it, the door shut tight. But the lights are on inside, and the door is made of a foggy, tinted glass. Through it, I can see the outline of two figures, standing close by.
I pause just on the other side of the door, my breath held.
I shouldn’t do this. I should leave them alone. Or else knock and walk in there to announce my presence. But the raised voice is feminine—it’s Sheryl, yelling, in a way I’ve never heard before, and so I pause outside the door, my hand on the knob, torn.
“—get your act together,” Sheryl’s shouting, now that I’m close enough to hear through the glass panel. “Between the red eyes and the whiskey-sweat stench, you could pass for a homeless addict right now.”
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. My stomach clenches. I’ve never heard her talk like that before, to anyone, let alone Lark. Maybe she’s really angry about something—potentially about me—but still…
Also, it hits me. Why is he bleary eyed… and does he really smell like alcohol? I didn’t notice it earlier when I said good morning to him—and I always notice how Lark smells. Maybe Sheryl’s just guessing, because he looks like he didn’t sleep last night.
Why didn’t he sleep last night? Was he thinking of me, tossing and turning, the same way I was the whole rest of this week?
My guilt feels like a compound, snaky thing, constantly twisting and finding new soft places where it can bite me, take out chunks, eat away at me.
Lark says something back to Sheryl, too quietly for me to hear more than the comforting rumble of his baritone. I wish I could hear what he’s saying. I wish I knew what was going on here.
“We had an agreement.” Sheryl’s voice drops lower, furious now, and I’m forced to lean closer to the door to hear the rest, which only sets my heartbeat rabbiting in my eardrums. If they catch me out here, it will be obvious what I’m doing. I have no excuse for this. “And this… whatever the hell this is?” Through the glass, I watch the shorter shadow gesture a hand at the taller one. Sheryl, waving off Lark as if he’s nothing. “This is not part of our agreement. So I want you to stop moping about whatever sleazy whore you’re moaning over—yes, don’t act like I’m an idiot, Lark, I’ve known you for years—and get your shit together. Is that clear?”
Another soft reply from him. I still can’t hear it, can’t hear what he’s saying at all, but through the glass, his shadow straightens, shoulders back, arms stiff at his sides. It looks like he’s standing up for himself, or at the very least, not cowing before her.
Then the smaller figure pulls back an arm, and I hear a sharp cracking sound.
I don’t register what just happened until I see the taller figure’s head snap to one side, and a hand raise slowly to cup its cheek.
She just slapped him.
My stomach sinks all the way through the ground. Oh, God. She does know there’s another woman—but from the sounds of it, she doesn’t know it’s me yet. Hitting him, though?
I’m still standing there, frozen with shock, when she does it again. Backhand this time. Another sharp crack that makes me wince reflexively.
I know he hurt her, but…
All too late, I realize Sheryl’s shadow is now storming toward the door. Reflexively, I leap for the nearest large object—a stage curtain hanging nearby—and wrap it around myself. Just in time, too. The click clack of a familiar pair of heels storms out of Marcel’s office, as Sheryl strides back through the studio.
I hold my breath until a distant slam far off in the distance—followed by Marcel’s curse, probably as her opening the exit door ruined his lighting. Only then do I dare to exhale, to start to breathe again, my chest aching from the held breath.
I realize I haven’t heard Lark walk past. Being careful not to move too quickly or draw attention to myself, I fold a narrow slit in the stage curtains to peer through.
Sure enough, there’s Lark, standing only five feet away from me, his brow furrowed as
he glares out in the direction Sheryl just left. His fists are balled, and there’s a hand-shaped angry red mark on his cheek. My first instinct is to go to him. Offer him ice, tell him it will be okay, offer to cover up the mark with some foundation before anyone else in the studio sees, in case he doesn’t want to answer any awkward questions.
But I don’t move. Because I’m aware that I was just eavesdropping on a very private fight—a fight I most likely caused. My heart drops into my gut. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.
I pull the curtain closed again and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting until Lark leaves too. Like Sheryl, he beelines straight across the main studio floor. When I peer out again, he’s paused beside the stage, glancing around, like he’s looking for somebody. Failing that, he shakes his head, murmurs something to Marcel, and then heads out of the studio.
A minute later, just as I’ve summoned the courage to come out from behind the curtain and approach the stage again, my phone buzzes. It’s a new text, from Lark.
Sorry I missed you. Had to run. Urgent business matter. You’re doing amazing today, though. Just wanted to tell you that. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come.
He signs it with a simple x. I have to close my eyes, pressing my phone against my chest, in order to keep from breaking down.
All I want to do is chase after him, out into the parking lot. To pull him into my arms and kiss his bruise better.
Instead, I square my shoulders and return to the stage. There, I find Marcel, no longer ogling his model beau, but gazing past me out the studio doors, in the direction of the parking lot.
One look at my face, and he guesses. “You saw the state Lark was in?”
I nod, careful.
His mouth flattens in disapproval. But he doesn’t offer anything else. He just goes back to watching the photoshoot, this time with his arms folded across his chest.
After a moment, I clear my throat, and venture, “Um… Is that… usual?”
Marcel lets out a long, slow sigh, his mouth pursed in a way that tells me exactly what he’s thinking. “No, Cassidy. I don’t care who you are, or what your relationship, former or otherwise, is to someone else. That’s not usual, girl.”
Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance Page 29