I press my lips into a firm line and pin my daughter with unblinking focus. “Try again, Maisy.”
She stares back, also unblinking. No four-year-old in human history has gone so long without blinking.
That’s it. She’s going to become a spy. My child is immune to interrogation tactics.
I shift my efforts to Grayson. He’s younger. He’ll sing like a canary.
“What’d y’all do up there, Grayson?”
He eyes Maisy and shrugs unconvincingly. “We just sha-wing.”
“Sharing?”
He nods. “Unca Lawk said to play nice. Dat means to shawe.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Share what?”
“Toys,” Maisy announces. The unspoken duh is implied.
“Tone, young lady.” I run my gaze over both children who are clearly not toting any toys. “What toys?”
Maisy folds her arms across her chest in a damn good imitation of me. “My princess crown and sector.”
“Scepter?” I ask.
“Sssepter,” she enunciated. Beside her Grayson slowly and silently mouths the word.
I’ve got to give it to the kid, he’s an adorable little nugget. I bite down on my laugh.
“You put your toys in Lark’s room?”
Both kids smile and nod. Okay, so this must be true. I smother my snickers. I should probably go up and grab them, but I can’t help but laugh at the thought of Lark going to bed later and finding himself in possession of a pink plastic crown and a bedazzled staff.
I wipe the smile off my face and give my daughter a stern look. “You need to stay out of other people’s rooms.”
She blinks up at me, all innocence, her bottom lip plumping into a bourder. “Even your room?”
I sigh. I want her to feel welcome in my room. Now and always. When she has a bad dream. When she misses Nanna. Even when she’s sixteen and gets buzzed off a stolen six-pack of White Claw, I want her to know she can come to me.
“That’s different,” I say. “We’re family.”
Her pout vanishes. “Uncle T is family too!”
Grayson beams. “Unca Lawk is my fambly!”
“Can Grayson meet Uncle Tyler? I met his uncle.”
I’ve officially lost control of this conversation. And I need to get back to my soup before it boils over. “Go find Tyler,” I say, surrendering.
And I have every intention of telling Lark about his princess presents, but by the time Maggie, Grayson, and Lola leave, dinner is over—Lark, his sister-in-law, and even Grayson accepted a bowl of minestrone, and though Nina demurred, she got one anyway—Maisy’s bath is about an hour overdue, and I forget all about it.
So I’m surprised when I hear heavy footfalls in the hall outside my bedroom. They’re too fast to be Tyler’s. Maisy is splashing in my tub, singing “Sweet Georgia Brown,” Nanna’s favorite song, and I’m changing when the floor creaks down the hall—by Maisy’s room.
My heart climbs my throat. I grab my robe and throw it around me, knotting the ties as I open the door. Lark is midstride, heading away from Maisy’s room and toward the stairs. And he’s holding the princess paraphernalia.
“Oh gosh,” I stammer. “Sorry about that.”
Lark turns, and I watch the rapid sweep of his eyes along my body. I glance down at the deep V of my robe and quickly clutch the fabric. Beneath the satiny material, I’m just wearing my panties. And before I gripped that V, that fact might have been obvious.
“No, I’m sorry,” Lark says, taking two steps back, further into the shadows of the hall. The light in Maisy’s room is on, and my bedside lamp is lit, but other than that, the hallway is dark. ”It can wait until morning.”
He starts to go, plastic toys still in hand.
“Y-You can leave that. She shouldn’t have been in your room.”
Lark faces me again, his left brow arching high. “You knew?”
I shake my head. “I heard them upstairs. I forgot to say anything. I scolded Maisy for that. Did they leave a mess?”
He stares at me for a long moment like he’s trying to read something in my face. “It’s not what they left that’s the problem.”
My heart plummets. “What do you mean? What did they do?”
Something in his face relaxes. “You didn’t know.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “Tell me.”
His mouth quirks with the barest wry smile. “I called Maggie who interrogated Gray—” He holds up the toys. “Apparently, these are meant to be payment.”
My heart is racing. “For what? What did she take?”
The wry smile strengthens. “They took two gemstones.”
My eyes bug. “Gemstones?”
Lark nods. “I think Maisy might be in possession of a hefty chunk of turgite.”
“Turgite?” Apparently, I’m so embarrassed, all I can do is parrot his words.
Lark licks his lips and steps closer into the light. “Um, yeah, it’s an iridescent mineral composite found in the botryoidal habit of goethite.”
I blink once. Twice. “Huh?”
I watch Lark bite the corner of his smile. “It’s a rainbow-looking rock.”
“Oh.” I tilt up my chin, trying to maintain dignity where there’s none to be found. “A rainbow-looking rock sounds exactly like something Maisy would notice.”
“Yeah.” Lark’s eyes narrow on a nod. “I’d let her keep it, but it’s wor—”
He stops and shakes his head, seeming to change his mind mid-sentence. “Let her keep it.”
My heart now plunges to my navel. “No,” I gasp. “She took something that didn’t belong to her. She cannot keep it.”
Lark shrugs and holds up the toys. “At least she tried to pay for it.”
I sneer. “How much is it worth?”
He hesitates. “That one is about two hundred dollars.”
My breath leaves me. “Shit. I’m raising a felon.”
“Hardly,” Lark answers on a laugh. “And it wasn’t entirely her fault. Grayson knew about my collection and helped himself to a lapis lazuli.”
“Your collection?” I cringe.
He nods. “Rockhound, remember?”
My stomach tightens. His room—all of their rooms—only lock from the inside. “How big is this collection?”
Lark’s smile lights with pride. Pride looks good on him. “I have about seventy different samples, but only a couple dozen are in display cases in my room.” He gives me a confidential look. “As soon as I saw the princess toys, the empty display boxes sort of leapt out at me.”
“Oh God.” I palm my face. “I’m so sorry.” What kind of mother am I? My kid is always helping herself to things that don’t belong to her. And what kind of landlady am I? I knew those kids had been in his room, and I didn’t say anything. I should have gone to tell him immediately.
Unable to meet his eyes, I stare at my bare feet. “Give me just a minute.”
I retreat back into my bedroom and softly close the door behind me. Maisy’s in my tub with bubbles up to her chin. I’m upset, but I’m also the adult here. I’m really the one who’s failing. Not her. Besides, no one deserves to be scolded while buck naked, so I grab her overall shorts and T-shirt from the floor.
“When you’re done, we’ll have a talk,” I say evenly.
She blows on a handful of bubbles, clearly not thinking about her criminal past. “Okay, Mama.”
I take her clothes to my room and spread them out on my bed. At once, I spot a lump in the back pocket of her overalls. I unsnap the button and fish out a rainbow-striped rock roughly the size of an egg. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone painted on it. The colors are that vivid.
The texture is coarse, not smooth like an emerald or jade. More like a pumice stone. But the colors are unbelievable. Nothing like what you’d expect to see in rock. I grip it tightly and walk it back to the hall.
Lark is leaning against the wall outside my door, his arms folded lazily over his chest. Biceps bulge and mu
scles ripple, but he looks relaxed. For a moment, I forget what I’m doing and just look at him. It’s not the first time.
Looking at him is like standing under a hot shower. I don’t want to move and I never want it to end.
Except usually, when I find myself staring, it’s at his profile over breakfast or his back as he climbs the stairs.
Not face to face like we are now.
A slow smile claims his mouth. “It’s okay if you can’t find it.”
“Huh?” And it’s then I feel the weight of the egg-shaped rock in my hand. Behind Lark, I see he’s propped Maisy’s princess gear by her door.
Get it together, Stella.
“Here you go.” I hold out the stone. When he takes it from me, his fingers graze along my palm. Warm static cascades down my spine.
I pull my hand away and ball it into a fist, trying to quell the sensation.
Lark’s eyes narrow on me. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I straighten and cross my arms over my chest to hide my tightening nipples. “Just… rattled. That’s all.”
I try to brush off my reaction to his touch, but it’s not so easy. My gaze drops to his hands. What did they feel when he touched me?
“Rattled?”
I raise my gaze. He looks both amused and curious. And close. Is he leaning in? God, he smells good.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Just the situation. Maisy taking something of yours.” It’s true, I am upset about that, but my failures as a mother and a landlady are not what rattled me.
No, I’m flustered because beneath this robe, I’m nearly naked, and my wires are getting crossed. My body is confusing signals. That’s all. Me wearing next to nothing, here in the shadows of the hall. Him standing so close, leaning like that… practically at my bedroom door. My instincts are just confusing the context.
And the context is a four-letter word.
Kiss.
“W-We can install a keyed lock on your door if you like,” I offer, grasping for something pragmatic, boring. “So this doesn't happen again.”
“Nah,” Lark says, shaking his head. “I was here. It’s not like I’m going to lock my door every time I walk out of the room.” He angles his head toward my bedroom. “And if the only thieves I need to worry about are the pint-sized ones, I think I can handle it. It’s not like Maisy and Grayson can get very far with their loot.”
How come he’s the one who’s been wronged, and I’m the one being reassured?
A minute ago, I was beating myself up for my crappy mothering and irresponsible property management. But his calm and ease are affecting me. Maisy is just pint-sized. She’s only four. Yeah, she needs to learn that what she did was wrong, but Lark isn’t pissed. He’s not demanding reparations. He’s making this easier.
He kind of does that a lot.
Aside from showing Maisy some grace, he spent his evening helping Nina—or helping Maggie help Nina. He’s offered to help me with my business.
And he cooked dinner for me last night so I could take a bath.
Did I say looking at him was like standing under a hot shower? Scratch that. It’s more like sinking into a hot bath. Effortless.
It would be so easy to lean in and k—
With a sharp inhale, I block that thought and take a step back.
“Stella?” Lark’s voice is rough, but his eyes look concerned.
“I-I need to go check on Maisy. Sorry,” I say, backing into my room. “Sorry again about everything.”
He steps closer. “It’s okay—”
“Goodnight.”
I close the door between us, noting that he’s nearly in the doorway when I do. Spreading both hands against the wood, I feel how cool it is. How hot I am by comparison.
I shut my eyes.
He signed a one-month lease. Don’t forget that.
My chest rises and falls like I just narrowly dodged a high-speed collision.
I know better than this. I know better. Men come into my life when they need something.
Like Dad and his stupid haircut. My brother needs long-term care. Brody needed a good time.
And Lark needs a place to stay. Temporarily.
I may like looking at him. I may like listening to him. I may like getting to know him. But it’s not what I need. As soon as I forget that, life has a way of reminding me that the only one I can count on for what I need is me.
Chapter Fourteen
LARK
October arrives and it’s the first time this semester that walking across campus is actually pleasant. It won’t last. It’s supposed to heat up again on Sunday, but I’ll take the break while I can get it.
The hint of cool in the air must be affecting Pen, too. She came down at breakfast—an honor she usually only bestows on us on the weekends—and declared that we needed to get our sorry asses in gear and help her decorate for Halloween.
Technically, she said Samhain, but I’m from New Iberia. Nobody there says Samhain, and I’m not gonna be the first.
So, these are my big Friday night plans. Hanging Halloween decorations with my roommates.
I admit, I was wrong about them. About all of them. The roommates, that is. Not the Halloween decorations.
When I moved in almost a month ago, I thought there was no chance I’d spend much time in the common spaces. That all I needed was my room—a place to crash. There’s nothing wrong with my room, but I’m not in it as much as I thought I’d be.
Not even to study.
There’s no TV in the sitting room, and a couple of weeks ago, I came home and found Livy studying in the recliner with her laptop balanced on her crossed knees. I was prepping for a Geophysics test, and the sitting room’s empty loveseat seemed more inviting than the stiff-backed chair in my bedroom. The bed itself isn’t an option. If I try to crack open a book there, I’m asleep in five minutes flat.
So I asked if I could join. Her answer: as long as I didn’t think I was entitled to her chair or her attention. A month ago, that might have grated. But after the first two days of bathroom negotiations, I figured out that all Livy wants is to be respected.
Everyone deserves to be respected.
We’ve only talked a little, but it’s clear Livy’s life has conditioned her to expect that she’s not going to get respect. Her words: I got three strikes against me: Black, short, and female. So when it comes to respect, she thinks she has to fight for it instead. Every new situation. Every day.
It would suck to feel that way.
So in those first few days, when Livy snarled at me, I didn’t engage. I gave her space. She snarls a lot less now.
When I get home from my last class, the kitchen is empty, but I can hear Tyler’s TV down the hall. If she’s here, Pen is probably up in her attic, prepping for the festivities, but I can tell that Maisy and Stella aren’t home.
The house is too quiet for them to be here.
As I’ve come to expect, Livy’s in the sitting room, studying. Even though it’s Friday. She’s a poli-sci major with plans to go to law school, and she’s hell-bent on graduating at the top of her class.
I can respect that. Hell, I can relate.
But I still don’t study on Fridays.
I enter the sitting room like I’m walking into the third floor of Dupre Library. Sure, I could go hang in my room, but then I wouldn’t know when Stella gets home, and maybe I’m waiting to catch a glimpse of her.
“Standing watch isn’t gonna make her get home any sooner,” Livy mutters a few minutes after I sit down.
I jerk my gaze away from the kitchen and aim it at her. Livy’s eyes are still trained on the page in front of her. I glance at the title. The Color of Law. I grin because this morning, she was halfway through Between the World and Me.
It’s rare to catch her with the same book twice. She plows through them that quick. Livy Arnold is a woman on a mission.
Still grinning, I glare at her until she looks up. “Something wrong with you?”
“Ju
st theorizing.”
Her eyes narrow, her upturned nose angling higher. “About what?”
“Why you read in here.” I stroke my chin and adopt a mock expression of contemplation. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with your upstairs neighbor, would it? And the fact that you can hear her walking around, and chanting… and humming?”
Usually it’s “Olivia” by One Direction. But I’ve also heard what I’m pretty sure is “Lady” by Styx?
Judging by how she tucks her chin, I’ve caught Livy off guard. There’s no missing the way Pen looks at Livy, but I’ve also witnessed the hungry way Livy looks at Pen.
My roommate recovers her composure. “I can concentrate better down here,” she says, fixing her gaze back on her book. “At least when some white boy isn’t making himself a nuisance.”
I blow out a defensive laugh. “I was just sitting here.”
Her lips purse. “Hmm. Your thoughts were so loud, they could hear you next door. Why don’t you just text her to see when she’s comin’ home?”
The thought is so tempting my lungs fill, but I gut it out. “I can’t do that.”
I’m pretty sure Stella has been avoiding me since the day Maggie came over. Not, like, in a mean way. Just awkward.
Probably because when I saw her in that robe—no hint of nightgown or pajama top in sight—the look on my face must have been along the lines of Get in my mouth. The encounter was just ten minutes, and I can’t stop seeing that picture of her. Like a dream whose images throw themselves in your face the day after.
Except this has been every day for more than two weeks.
“Why not?” I catch Livy eyeing me over her book. My salty roommate likes to pretend she can’t be bothered with other people, but she’s not fooling me.
Still, do I want to confide in her?
“I don’t think she’d want me to.” Okay, maybe I do want to confide in her.
Livy’s brows form a bar over her eyes. “You dumber than those rocks you drool over.”
I roll my eyes. “She gets busy every time I enter a room.”
Livy looks like she knows this already. “Stella’s always busy.”
Truth. But now when I catch her sitting at the kitchen table with her coffee and her laptop, she bolts up from whatever she’s doing and mutters something about needing to unload the dishwasher or switch a load of laundry or take chicken thighs out of the deep freezer in the garage.
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