Or so I think.
“Where’s my candy bag?” Maisy wails, panicked.
Yep, Mother of the Year.
We go back to Maisy’s room to hunt for the bag I know I saw two days ago. When we finally unearth it from the mess of Maisy’s closet, it’s ten after six, and I’ve already messed up Pen’s Samhain schedule.
On our way out the door, we detour through the kitchen so I can level with Pen. I’m not shortchanging Maisy’s trick-or-treating time. You’re only four once, and though I may not be Mother of the Year, my girl is going to get the full hour of fun she was promised.
Maisy at my heels, I push through the swinging door with this argument on my lips and stop cold.
Wearing a face that looks like thunder, Lark stands in my kitchen in a sleeveless black tunic that—like Pen’s dress—shows more chest than should be legal. I know I saw him shirtless that night, and it was all things beautiful. But moonlight is so merciful.
This is an ambush.
My palms itch with the memory of touching the plates of those pecs. I’ve gripped those contoured shoulders in a fit of passion. I’ve come apart under the skill of those sculpted fingers.
Throat suddenly dry, I drag my gaze down from Lark’s upper body, but the simple drawstring pants Pen has made for him are somehow just as dangerous. Maybe it’s that he’s barefoot. I don’t know whether he looks more like someone about to perform a karate kata or a love scene.
I’m riveted either way.
The only thing off-putting is that glare he’s giving Pen.
“I draw the line at horns,” he growls.
Pen’s hands go out in mollifying flutters. “Technically, they’re antlers.”
And that’s when I see them. Perched on one of the kitchen chairs is a set of antlers that would do Bambi proud. Even from here, I can tell they’re papier mache or some kind of artistic rendering Pen has cooked up, but if Lark puts those on, I’ll never stop laughing.
My hiccupped giggle has his glare whipping to me. And then he freezes. His nostrils flare. His lips part. His pupils go nickel-sized, and damn if my panties aren’t wet.
“You look—” His voice is low, rough. His Adam’s apple dips when he swallows. I want to lick it. “You look great.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
The compliments are watered down Kool-Aid compared to the responses I know both of us are having.
So maybe Pen was right. Lark still wants me.
The confirmation is both fortifying and confusing. I need to get out of here.
I face Pen. “We’re going. We’ll be back in an hour,” I tell her.
Her quick glance at the microwave clock lets me know she’s aware of our lateness, but Pen just pinches her mouth closed. Smart lady.
“Wait—” Lark frowns at me and Maisy. “You’re going by yourselves?”
Is he serious?
“Yeah?”
“I’ll come with you,” he says with decision. “It’s dark out there.”
“Uh… It’s Halloween—”
“Samhain,” Pen interjects.
I ignore her. “The streets are full of trick-or-treaters. It’s fine.”
“Still—”
Still nothing. Lark has kept his distance from me for ten days, and he wants to shadow me now? I shake my head. I know I need to take action, but now is not the time.
“Nope. This is mother-daughter time,” I say, putting my foot down. “See y’all in an hour.”
And with that, I grip Maisy’s hand and we’re out. Maybe I leave Lark staring after me with his mouth open.
And maybe that’s just fine.
We’re back in less than an hour. Maisy’s candy bag is dragging the ground, and she’s wiped, but she has stories to tell.
“We met a real witch!” Maisy announces as she charges through the front door.
The whole crew is in Nanna’s dining room, prepping for Pen’s big dinner. All eyes flick from Maisy to Pen, who is clearly bristling.
“I’m a real witch,” she declares, chin high.
“No—” Maisy shakes her head. “A famous one!”
Clearly offended, my best friend looks to me for explanation.
I bite my lip. “It’s true. You know the dance studio on the corner?” I point my thumb over my shoulder. Everyone nods except Pen. She just seethes. “That girl from Hexed was giving out candy on the front porch.”
Pen’s jaw drops. “Iris Adams?”
I nod, and Pen breaks into a run for the front door.
“Hang on!” I call after her. “They aren’t there anymore. The crowds got too big.”
Pen wheels on me. “You mean to tell me Raven Blackwell—Netflix’s most famous witch—is down the street handing out candy and you didn’t text me?”
I bite my lip.
Her eyes bug. “What happened? I know you weren’t star-struck.”
I shrug. “You didn’t see her boyfriend,” I confess in a whisper.
And I don’t miss Lark’s stiffening spine.
“Apparently, he’s a local,” I say, smiling at the memory of the gorgeous guy with his arm wrapped around Iris Adams.
A rumble comes from across the room. Everyone looks at Lark.
Livy claps her hands, startling all of us. “Time for the feast.”
Feast is rather a strong word, but since Livy and Nina did most of the cooking and I did none, I’m not about to argue.
It’s while the two of them are serving our plates that I realize Nina, Livy, and I are all wearing orange while Tyler, Pen, and Lark are in black.
It also isn’t lost on me that Pen’s tailoring talents and artistic eye have outdone themselves. Although our outfits look similar, like part of a set, they are distinct with personal touches. Nina’s neckline is the highest, but also the most adorned—with shiny, applique marigolds on the bodice. She is elegant. Stunning, even. When she leans in to set Tyler’s plate in front of him, his eyes don’t even glimpse the food. They are locked on her the entire time.
When she steps away, she’s blushing, but she looks nothing like the girl who turned up on our doorstep seven weeks ago with nothing but a black eye to her name.
Her whole bearing is lighter, lifted. Her smile is not just happy; it’s proud.
I look to Pen across the table to acknowledge this transformation—her magic—but, of course, her eyes are on Livy, whose dress is cut to celebrate each of her sensual, hour-glass curves. Unlike mine and Nina’s, her skirt and bodice are pleated, and the lines draw the eye down from Livy’s ample bosom to her surprisingly tiny waist before cascading down her full hips.
Livy’s hemline petals out and dances around her plump calves. I could be imagining it, but Livy seems to twirl left to right—maybe more than is strictly necessary—as she serves us. The look in her eyes and her smile are unusually soft. Maybe that’s because she’s bending her own rule tonight, and sipping from the mulled wine Pen made. Or maybe it’s something else.
I sweep my gaze around the table and beam. As Pen has dictated, we are seated black-orange-black along one side of the table with Pen, Livy, and Lark, and orange-black-orange with Nina, Tyler, and me on the other. Maisy, with her flame orange wig and black necktie, sits at the head.
Candles span the center of the table, flickering light off our blood red punch glasses of mulled wine, or, in Maisy’s case, cranberry juice. The warmth and joy in the room has tears pricking my eyes.
Laughing instead, I can’t help but raise my glass.
“Pen, this is truly amazing.” I swallow hard because I don’t want my voice to wobble now, but when my best friend meets my gaze, I know she sees. “Nanna would have loved this. You’ve made this house a home again.”
“Me?!” Pen looks scandalised. “Nuh-uh. You did this. This is your dream house.”
Before I can argue, glasses shoot up around the table.
“Truth,” Livy says.
“Amen,” Nina mutters.
“Mmm,” Tyler grunts.
; I look across from me to see Lark’s glass lifted, his eyes burning into mine. “To Stella,” he says, his voice deep and clear. “Who took us all in, against her better judgement in some cases—like mine,” he adds to a ripple of laughter, “and gave us all a chance to build the lives we want.”
I open my mouth to protest, but five other voices, even Tyler’s slow and struggling one, echo,
“To Stella!”
“To Mama!” Maisy chips in.
And this time, the tears get the upper hand, and my dinner napkin has to rush to the rescue before I ruin my makeup.
The food is good. The deer sausage spicy, the braised kale savory, and the acorn squash buttery.
But the mulled wine is better.
I’m on glass number three when Pen gives a dramatic yawn and looks down at Maisy with a pointed expression.
Ah. It’s time for the bedtime bluff.
It takes a little longer to get Maisy settled in than usual. She can tell it’s a special night. The house hums with a thicker energy. But after a couple of Halloween-themed bedtime stories, her sugar-rush wears off and she’s out.
And I join the party outside.
I was too caught up with our Iris Adams sighting to notice the set up in the front yard. The “bonfire” is Lark and Tyler’s creation. It’s illegal to light a bonfire in the middle of town without a permit, and, of course, we don’t have one. So ours is a bonfire in spirit.
In reality, it’s a cast iron fire pit stacked expertly with split logs and kindling. And Lark must have been a Boy Scout in his youth because the teepee structure first glows and then blazes almost as soon as he lights it.
We’re in the front yard for two reasons. One, the oak trees in the back yard—with their draping and ground-scraping limbs—would make a fire like this a little sketchy. And two, because Maisy’s bedroom butts up to the back yard.
And Pen correctly predicted that we’d be loud.
I’m on my fourth glass of mulled wine, sitting in a camp chair in front of the fire. We’re all out here, encircling the blaze. Pen has traded her woo-woo Spotify playlists for Spooky Chill. The night is cool, but not cold, and I’m staring into flames, willing myself to focus on them and not the heat coming from across the circle.
I’ve felt Lark’s eyes on me all night.
He’s staring at me outright. Maybe he thinks the dancing flames hide his gaze. They don’t. They just magnify the heat soaking into my body.
Pen rises from her chair beside me. “Who needs a refill?”
Empty punch glasses go up around the circle, and as she collects them, Livy shoots to her feet. “I’ll help you.”
They steal inside, leaving four of us around the fire. But Tyler and Nina are holding hands, heads dipped close. In their own world.
So, it really feels like there’s just the two of us. The smoldering steel guitar notes of “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaac come over the speaker.
My eyes meet Lark’s over the fire bowl. Without looking away from me, he rises and stalks over.
My heart is hammering by the time he drags Pen’s chair even closer to me and sinks into it.
“You having a good time?” His casual question is at odds with the gravely pitch of his voice.
“Great time,” I squeak.
A reckless grin overtakes him.
Yeah, neither one of us is fooling the other. Our words might be casual, but nothing else is.
His grin fades, and heat flares in his eyes. “You look amazing.” Then he gives a tight, almost angry shake of his head. “You always look amazing, but—tonight…” He licks his lips, and I feel the gesture in my panties. “I’m speechless.”
His words light me up, but it’s that look in his eyes, that hungry, helpless look that makes me feel like I’m glowing. I swear, little green men could see me from the moon.
I swallow. “You too.” It’s not enough, not nearly enough to capture how irresistible he looks tonight. “I mean it.”
Lark’s smile is rueful as he rolls his eyes. “At least she didn’t insist on the antlers.”
My laugh echoes across the yard.
“Maybe after a few more cups of mulled wine,” I tease.
He shakes his head. “We don’t have enough wine for that.”
Laughter gets away from me.
Again, his smile loses ground as he watches me.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My laughter corks itself. I shift in my seat.
We’re doing this now?
“You could have fooled me,” I level.
I guess we’re doing this now.
His brow furrows as he absorbs my response, but he never breaks eye contact. “Yeah,” he says, his voice going low. “I’ve been a dick.”
At his admission the stab of pain I’ve tried to deny at his distancing sears like someone has bathed it in turpentine. The wound has been there all along, but it’s not until he acknowledges his actions that I feel it so hard.
His eyes make a furtive dart toward Tyler and Nina before coming back to me. “Can we maybe go somewhere and talk?” he asks, pitching his voice even lower.
I glance at Tyler and Nina. They’re not paying attention to us. They’re in their own little world. But, clearly, Lark doesn’t want an audience.
Do I want to give him a chance to explain? I could say no. Saying no feels quantifiably safer. And as Pen’s little session emphasized, I’m good at playing it safe.
Still, is now the time to take a risk?
I must dither for too long. Lark launches out of his chair and thrusts a hand at me. “Come with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
LARK
I pull Stella away from our roommates, intent on taking her to the back yard. But I only get as far as the side of the house.
My speed—the way I drag her over roots, under ligustrum branches, and through spider webs—must alarm her.
“Lark, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
I stop and look back at her. Light from street lamps filters through the privet branches onto Stella’s flower garland, her shining hair and glowing skin. She looks like she’s just stepped out of a fairytale. Or I’ve stepped into one.
I want her. More than I should. More than I can stand.
“No.” My voice is the rasp of a starved man.
She squeezes my fingers, her pretty frown marking her brow. “What is it?”
I swallow. It’s too big to explain. I try anyway. “I shouldn’t.”
Stella tilts her head to the side. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Want you this much.” The words aren’t enough. Not nearly enough.
But she doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she watches me, curious but patient. “Why shouldn’t you?”
I swallow thickly, my skin itching everywhere she’s not touching, and she’s only touching one hand. “Because I’m not what you need.”
She’s quiet. I’m sure she’s going to drop my hand, agree, and turn away.
But she doesn’t. She takes a step closer, bringing our fronts just inches apart. Her frown is gone when she looks into my eyes.
“And what do I need?”
I smother a groan. Even with centimeters of air between us, I can feel her heat. I can see her pulse pounding in the swell of her breasts, her bodice tugged tight against the sweet flesh.
I lick my lips, try to make my tongue form words—the right words—instead of plunging into her cleavage, never to return.
“A better man.”
I’ve surprised her. Now she licks her lips, and God, why did Pen have to dress me in these drawstring pants? If Stella looks down, she’ll shriek.
“You don’t think you’re a better man?”
No. The answer is a solid no. I’m about to tell her so when she steps into my space and places a hand right on my chest—where the deep V of this ridiculous shirt gapes open. Her palm sears into my skin, and a shiver rocks me.
I want to grab her and yank her up to my mouth. It takes mo
re control than I thought I had to resist.
“Stella—” It’s a plea. An appeal for mercy. She ignores it, her thumb executing a slow sweep down my breastbone.
“Because I think you’re a good man.” Her voice is breathy. The emotion I hear in it pierces me cleanly. I’m skewered. “You’re selfless, and thoughtful, and reliable, and you’re a true friend.”
I swear, I’m being torn open. I want to be everything she says. I want her to see me this way. But if I were any of those things, I wouldn’t be here now, standing in the shadows, ready to break the promises I made to myself.
After Tyler and Nina’s ambush—after Bear made me take a good, hard look at myself, I know they’re right. All of them. Nina, Tyler, Maggie, Bear, Zoe, Mom. I can’t be trusted around women who need me to be more than I am.
I can’t be trusted around Stella.
I shake my head. “I let everyone down.”
Her brows lift. “And how, exactly, do you do that?”
“I can’t be who they want me to be.”
And then what I see in her eyes threatens to take my knees out. I don’t think anyone in my life has ever looked at me like this.
“What if I like who you are?”
Warning sirens wail in the back of my head, but they are nothing to the roaring in my ears, the pounding of my pulse, and the pull of my bones to connect with her.
Because how can I walk away?
It’s like the pour of honey, the way our bodies come together, a slow, golden fall. As soon as my lips meet hers, the ache I’ve carried for ten days vanishes. For one breath, it is a wash of relief just to have her with me again.
Just to be given the chance to have this.
It’s ridiculous how much I have missed this. Because how can you miss something you’ve only had once? We had one night, yet it owns me.
I pull Stella tighter against me, and with the caress of her moan against my mouth, the relief I feel catches fire and burns into need.
And hunger.
And now.
The kiss becomes wild. It’s her and it’s me, and suddenly I feel it. The ache I’ve been carrying in my chest? The unbearable pull? She’s felt it too. She feels it for me.
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