“Shame about their troubles of late.” He shakes his head. “Can’t help but think it’s because Lark’s a stubborn one. He didn’t see what was right in front of him all the while.”
My throat has gone tight. I clear it, forcing myself to smile and nod. To act normal. “Isn’t that always the way?” I say.
The man laughs. Across the room, his men have finished assembling my handsome new couch—which looks like it probably cost more than every other piece of furniture in my apartment put together. They’re carrying out the disassembled pieces of my old one now, when their overseer pauses, glancing at the rainbow, makeup-stained cushion.
“You got kids?” he asks, squinting at it, and then around my place, as if wondering where I’ve stashed a toddler.
I flash back to last night. To Lark pulling me onto his lap, the makeup spilling around us. “No,” I say. “But you could say someone immature did that.”
The man laughs again, and then offers me his hand. “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure if you’re an Anderson employee, we’ll meet again soon.”
I shake, a small frown creasing my forehead. “Oh, no,” I start to say. “I’m not a—”
But he’s already following his men out the door with a single backward salute at me. I wait until they’re in the hallway, and then shut the door behind them, locking it, and leaning backward against it. My head hits the wood with a faint thud.
I raise it, and let it fall back again with a harder smack this time.
What a mess.
And if I thought the day started out awkwardly, it’s only about to get more so. Less than an hour after the delivery men leave, I get two texts in a row. One from Lark.
I still cannot stop thinking about you. Tell me how you like the new addition to your apartment. Or better yet, how about I come over to test it out tonight?
And another from Sheryl.
So sorry I wasn’t able to come to the demo yesterday. What about a makeup (wink) meeting today? Lunch downtown at 1pm? My treat.
Followed by an address, a restaurant I’ve never been to, mostly because the only thing I’d be able to afford there is a single appetizer plate.
Shit.
* * *
It’s hard not to think about the fact, as I watch Sheryl unfold her napkin and set it primly in her lap across the table from me, that just last night I was in bed with her husband. Her ex-husband?
Either way. Guilt churns in my stomach. The dish she ordered me, some kind of rare steak from Japan I’ve never heard of, smells incredible. But it’s difficult for me to even hold my fork and knife long enough to cut it, let alone raise it to my lips.
Sitting between us on the table is my makeup palette. The same palette that destroyed my former couch, albeit now it’s been cleaned and refilled properly. Looking at it now, I picture it in Lark’s hands, as he turned it admiringly this way and that in the sunlight streaming through my windows. Then I think about the way it slid from his grasp onto the couch beside us, when he pulled me over to straddle him, his hard cock digging into my thigh.
“It’s beautiful,” Sheryl says, dragging my attention back to the present. “Do you mind?” She reaches for it but waits for me to nod before she takes a few swatches and tests them along the inside of her wrist, admiring the color in the dim restaurant lighting.
She doesn’t cross to the window for a better look. I try not to hold it against her.
While she examines the merchandise, I force a piece of steak into my mouth. It melts on my tongue, buttery and supple. It’s possibly the most delicious steak I’ve ever eaten.
It’s hard to swallow. I have to wash it down with a gulp of sparkling water—Sheryl refused still when the waiter asked, practically offended by the notion.
“What did Lark say?” she asks, after a long pause. The lump in my throat doubles in size, having nothing to do with the steak.
“Pretty much the same thing.” I manage to keep a tremor from my voice. Good.
“He has a better eye than me for these sorts of things,” Sheryl admits, setting the palette down to take a bite of her own meal. “I’m more of a flavors-and-scents type. He’s the visual one.” She points with her fork. “Is something wrong? If they’ve overcooked it, I can send it back.”
“No, no. It’s delicious.” I raise my fork and knife again with effort. “I’m just… savoring.”
“A girl after my own heart.” Sheryl smiles at me, conspiratorially.
I grin back, trying not to let the guilt overwhelm me. Lark told me things were over between them. And I believe him. But the look in her eyes whenever she brings him up… Not to mention how often she brings him up…
I think about the delivery man again, from earlier today. Shame about their troubles. And here I am, adding to those troubles. Maybe at first I was innocent, unaware of Lark’s complicated situation. But now?
“Do I have anything in my teeth?” Sheryl asks, an eyebrow lifted, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“Sorry, no.” I drop my gaze. Search for an excuse. “I was just trying to figure out what shade of lipstick you’re wearing.”
She grins. “I appreciate how your mind is always on your work. Makes me feel confident to be your first investor.” She cuts off another piece, and I mimic her, the savory steak tasting like a solid block on my tongue. “I’m not sure of the name actually. Or even the brand. To be honest, I rarely wear makeup. Some old trifle Lark bought me years ago.”
I take another, longer gulp of water. Clear my throat. “So you two are…?” I let the question linger, unfinished.
Sheryl’s smile turns rueful. “Were,” she corrects, and I have to admit that the single word nearly makes me slide off my chair, weak with relief. At least that part is true, then. “We were married, for four years.”
“And you still manage to be business partners?” I can’t keep the note of surprise from my tone.
But it doesn’t seem to bother her. She leans back in her chair with a sigh. “Lark and I never did do anything the conventional way.” Her expression has turned inward, fond. “When we got married, we opened Anderson Investments the same year. Everyone told us it was mad, but we insisted. In for a penny, in for a pound, I always thought. Suppose some of those people are probably thinking told you so right about now, but…” She shakes her head, her mouth drooping at the corners. “I don’t mind. At least the business still keeps us somewhat connected now. Friends, if not anything more.”
“So, if you’re friends… you’d be okay with it if he moved on?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better. Before I can shove another piece of steak past my lips to make me hold my tongue.
Sheryl’s gaze jumps to mine, suddenly sharp. When she smiles again, it’s sharper than last time, pointed. “Are you interested in him?” she asks, point-blank, in a way that throws me completely.
“Of course not,” I blurt. Because what am I going to do? Admit right here at the lunch table that I’m still sore from her husband’s cock inside me last night?
God, what am I doing? I swore I would never be that woman, the type to break up someone else’s marriage. Granted, theirs may already have ended, but it’s clear Sheryl still holds fond feelings for Lark. She looks so wistful talking about their past… and so sad talking about the way it ended.
I lean forward, palms flat on the table. “There’s nothing between me and him, Sheryl,” I say, looking her dead in the eyes. “I promise you.”
And in that moment, I mean every word. Because I decide right then and there, I’m not pursuing him any further.
7
Cassidy
It turns out having a real investor with actual cashflow makes things move forward with exponential speed in the business world. Next thing I know, within days, we’ve already got a couple of media interviews on the docket, plus a featured ad in two major fashion magazines.
I don’t know how Lark and Sheryl did it. Lark assures me—through texts, since I’ve put off seeing him face-to-face a
gain, claiming to be busy, because I haven’t worked out yet how exactly to explain my sudden change of conscience—that it was all Sheryl’s doing. But I’m not entirely sure I believe him, based on how infrequently Sheryl replies to my emails to check in on various details.
Either way, regardless of who I have to thank for it, Thursday morning dawns with me dressing for a photoshoot with a famous photographer, representing one of the top beauty magazines in the country. On set, I’ll be responsible for providing all the professional makeup artists with the supplies—my supplies, my makeup, on the faces of models I’ve seen featured in all the magazines I grew up dreaming of being featured in. But it’s not lost on me that I’ll be on display too. There’s even going to be a small headshot of me, taken for the back details of the magazine, where I’ll be featured in a New Creators to Watch section.
I realize they’ll probably redo everything I do the minute I get to set, but I spend hours getting ready anyway, primping and styling myself to perfection before I finally set out.
Lark meets me in the parking lot of the studio, also dressed to the nines. The sight of him in a formal suit and tie takes my breath away the second I step out of my car. It takes all my self-control not to stride across the lot and fling myself into his arms right here.
Instead, I dive into my trunk to avoid him, then reemerge with my arms full of bags. Bags of all the makeup I put together for this event.
Lark holds out a hand, offering to take one, but I shy away from him. “I can handle carrying a few palettes,” I inform him, chin raised.
“Never said you couldn’t.” He tucks his hands into his suit pockets and falls into step beside me. “So. Busy week, hmm? You haven’t had a minute to spare for me.”
“And why should I?” I reply, my tone light, my face turned slightly away so that I don’t have to watch his expression when those words register. “It’s not like we owe one another anything.”
This time, I can’t help myself. I peek over, and my heart catches at the hurt expression on his face. “Cassidy…” But whatever he’s about to say is drowned out when the studio manager opens a door up ahead and catches sight of me.
“You must be Ms. Marks!” He drifts down the stairs, dazzling in a pinstripe suit and eyeshadow I’d kill to have designed myself. “Marcel. It’s such a thrill to meet you—Lark has been gushing about your talent ever since our last dinner, and I knew I had to invite you to set.” He kisses both of my cheeks, then wraps Lark in a tight hug.
Over his shoulder, Lark flashes me a pained smile.
All Sheryl’s doing, my ass. Still, I keep my own smile painted on, as Marcel practically drags me into the studio, chatting excitedly the whole way about how much Lark gushed about my products and how excited he is to use them on set today.
I’m starting to wonder if Lark has taken a special interest in my products just because of me, or if he’s always the one to run things in this company. I’m not sure which answer I’d prefer. I hope he’s not just pretending to love my products because he wants me to keep sleeping with him.
But somehow I doubt that. I watched him go over my palette that first time, and there was genuine admiration on his face. Plus, Lark doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who lies about what he feels. Even if it would be more convenient to do that.
For example, today. As Marcel leads me around set, introducing me to the different makeup artists and standing by as I explain my color ideas to them—each of the artists seems nicer than the last, and more encouraging of my work. But the whole time, every time I glance over, I find Lark watching me intently, his gaze laser focused.
And any time we move to the next counter to talk to another artist, his hand brushes my thigh, my waist, the edge of my bicep. He’s constantly finding excuses to touch me lightly, teasing, the small smile on his face whenever he does, telling me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Every time, I force myself to turn away. To stay focused. To continue with my pitches as though Lark isn’t standing just a foot or two away, those bright eyes of his boring into mine, the scent of his cologne mingled with his aftershave trailing after me like a memory I can’t shake. The memory of him spread-eagling me across my bed and bending down to kiss his way between my thighs, his tongue leaving a searing hot trail in its wake, until he reached home, lapping at my pussy like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
Oh, God. I force the image from my head.
By the time I finish handing out all my supplies and presenting to everyone on set, it’s time for the models to arrive. Finally, I get a bit of a breather, although—“You absolutely have to stay to watch!” Marcel gushes. “This is the most exciting part, getting to see your work used firsthand.” He drags a chair for me and another for Lark over to the edge of the stage, from which we have a view of all the different stations where models have been seated to have their makeup done, and in the other direction, the camera backdrop where they’ll be getting their photos taken.
It means, too, that everyone in this studio has a perfect view of the two of us, as well.
Which is why I tense up after, the moment we sit down, Lark slides a hand onto my knee. “You’re angry with me,” he says, his voice a low thrum. He leans close, just a bare inch from my shoulder, and I can barely think through the sudden pounding of my heart.
My eyes jump around the room. Marcel is in the corner talking to a man he introduced us to earlier, the photographer, although I can’t remember his name. I’m so bad with names.
“Cassidy.” Apparently heedless of the fact that we’re in public, right here in the middle of this studio, Lark reaches up to tuck a fingertip under my chin. That’s all it takes. He tilts my face toward his, his touch gentle as a makeup brush on a cheekbone. “What’s wrong?”
This close, I can see those flecks throughout his whorled green eyes again. I watch his individual black lashes, the slight part in his lips. He’s looking at me with such sincerity, such open honesty, that I can hardly bear it. I flinch backward, away from him. “We’re in public,” I say, gesturing around.
Lark doesn’t follow my gesture. His gaze remains focused straight on me. “So?”
“So, don’t you care if people notice you flirting with your new investment opportunity?” I reply, unable to keep a note of bitterness from my voice.
“I don’t care what they think. I care what you think. And clearly I’ve done something to upset you, based on how you’re acting today, although I cannot for the life of me figure out what.”
I set my jaw hard, and tear my gaze from his to stare blindly across the floor. I should be enjoying this moment, watching the fruits of my labor come to fruition or what have you. Marcel would kick me if he knew I barely even processed the artists hard at work with my supplies all around the studio. But all I can think about is the man beside me.
A man I owe an explanation, at the very least.
I clear my throat after a pause. “The other day. After you sent the men to deliver my sofa…”
“Is that it?” Lark’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “I’m sorry; I really thought getting rid of that old thing would be helpful—”
“No, it’s not that.” I wave him quiet. Meet his gaze again. “Sheryl asked me to lunch. And talking to her, hearing her side of things, I just…” I shake my head. “I can’t do this, Lark. I won’t be the person who stands in the way of a second chance at happiness with your wife. Even if she is your ex.”
For a moment, we only stare at one another, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. And then, to my surprise, red heat flushes through Lark’s face. “You’re joking, right.” He says it so flatly that it takes me a moment to register he’s actually waiting for a response.
“It’s just… it seems complicated. I don’t know if you two are really finished—”
“I told you that we are.” He slides off his chair and crosses to stand in front of mine, a hand on either arm, his face hovering an inch from mine. “I don’t give a fuck what Sheryl
thinks I should do, or how I should be living my life. I’m the one who lived through our breakup. You have no idea what she was—” He breaks off, scowls. “How she…” He shakes his head. “It’s my decision now. I get to choose how I live my life, and what my future is going to be. I choose my own happy endings from now on.”
The heat in his voice, and the passion in his face, both surprise me. Throw me. He seems angry, almost, but more than that. Desperate.
He breaks away from me and spins around, one hand running through his hair in a tight fist. “God. That…” He clamps his lips shut tight, and a frustrated growl escapes. “You don’t know what happened, Cassidy,” he says now, back still to me. “And if I have it my way, you won’t. The past is the past, and I’ve buried it.”
When he turns back around, all the fury has gone from his expression. There’s only the passion I’ve always seen on his face when he looks at me, the sheer desire. He moves closer once more, and I forget where we are. I forget we’re sitting in the middle of a crowded studio, with camera crews and models and stagehands all surrounding us. I look at Lark, and he’s all I can see. It’s tunnel vision.
I have a feeling it’s the same for him.
He tips forward until our mouths are a breath apart, until we’re sharing the same air. “I want you to be my future,” he says, softly. “The future I choose. The woman I choose. If you believe nothing else I said, believe that.”
My heart leaps into my throat. My lips part, and his eyes drop for a split second.
“Cassidy…”
“Kiss me goddamn it, Lark,” I breathe.
His lips collide with mine, and I sink into him. Slide my arms up to wrap around his neck as he draws me up and off my chair, pulling me to him.
I don’t notice our audience until we break apart, breathless, and Marcel starts to clap, a sly little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Now I see why you were so effusive about this one, my friend.” Marcel winks at Lark, who grins, one arm draped casually around my shoulder.
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