But I need to do this. I need to let go in order to move on. So I tell him I’ll be over in an hour, purposefully not even giving myself enough time to do my makeup properly or go all out. I just throw on a cute top (I’m not a saint), dust on some mascara and go.
Lark’s building looks as shiny and new as ever when I park outside. I climb the steps up to the glass front door with my heart in my throat. Tucked safely inside my purse is the tie that I ironed and rolled up in a neat little ball to return. My plan is to say my piece, hand it over, and head home hopefully feeling lighter and more ready to let go and move forward with my life.
It’s what my therapist would want me to do. Or so I tell myself, anyway.
The doorman at the desk lets me in with a smile and a nod, and pushes the button on the elevator to let me up to Lark’s floor. I try to smile back at him, and spend the whole elevator ride checking in the mirrors against the back wall to make sure that my hair isn’t a complete disaster. My smile looks wooden, tense.
Probably because I feel like a ball of nervous energy.
But when I step off the elevator, all of that melts away at the sight of Lark. He’s leaning against his kitchen counter with a book open, reading it with a little crease on his forehead, like he’s concentrating hard. It’s not until I knock gently, stepping through the doors to allow the elevator to close behind me, that he jumps and sets the book face-down on the counter.
When he does, I catch a glimpse of the title. Marketing Beauty Brands. A small smile touches my face. “Work research?” I ask.
He smiles back. “I want to make sure I’m doing everything I can for you, that’s all.”
Something flutters in my stomach. I force myself to ignore it. “Do you do this much homework for all your investments?” I side-eye him.
He lifts one shoulder in an easy shrug. “The ones I truly believe in, yeah.”
There’s that flutter again. Oh. I clear my throat and force myself to remember why I’m here. “Listen, I—”
“I just wanted to let you know, Cassidy, before you say anything else. I’ve gotten the message.”
I stop talking, blinking in confusion. For a split second, I try to remember if I drank enough any one night this week to have left a drunk voice message for him or something and then forgotten about it.
But he catches my expression and shakes his head, still smiling. “I mean, I understand that you want to take time for yourself. I won’t pursue you anymore. I can take no for an answer, you know. Once you repeat it often enough.” His eyes twinkle as he says it, but behind them, I’m sure I can detect a note of sadness in his voice. “From here on out, it’s all business with me, okay?” he continues. “I don’t want you to worry, or to think I won’t put my all into helping you just because our relationship didn’t work out the way I’d hoped.
My heart sinks, even though this should be exactly what I want to hear right now. He’s not going to pursue me anymore. That means I don’t have to fend off his advances, or constantly worry that I’m going to be weak and give into them.
It’s a good thing, I tell myself.
So why does it feel so bad? Looking at him now, all I want is for him to take it back. To tell me he’s not going to move on, that he can’t live without me. But those kinds of admissions only happen in movies, and anyway, would I want him to say that? Isn’t the healthiest type of relationships the one where both people are in it voluntarily, not because they’re afraid of what will happen if they’re alone?
I remind myself of Norman. Of how hard I fought to free myself from that mess. Just like I need to move on from this one.
So I clear my throat. Move toward him, just a step, to show that I’m cool with this. That I trust him to be the same. “Thank you. For saying that.”
He leans against his counter again, one hip cocked, watching me over the rim of his reading glasses. And dear God, if I thought the man was attractive before, put a pair of glasses on him and a book in his hand, and I’m in danger. “Well?” he asks, and I almost blurt out an apology for checking him out. He tilts his head, looking bemused. “You said you wanted to talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just, um…” I rub at my temple. Try to remember the speech I’ve been rehearsing ever since I made the decision to come over here. As I’m thinking, I can’t help it. I drift a little closer. Just so he can hear me better, I tell myself. “Something similar, actually,” I finally say, giving up and deciding to just wing it. “I’ve been seeing a therapist, working on myself—”
“That’s great, Cassidy.” He looks genuinely happy for me. And he sets his book aside, turning to face me, so our bodies are just inches apart in the cool air of his apartment.
I nod. I try to ignore those inches between us. “Anyway, I’m working on, uh, moving on and letting go of the past. So I just wanted to say… Yeah. I’m good with business only. Onward and upward from here, right?”
Except there’s a pit in my stomach. A pit that’s only growing wider and sharper, the longer we gaze at one another. Our relationship didn’t work out the way I’d hoped, he said. Am I being crazy right now? Walking away from the best thing that’s ever happened to me, from a guy who genuinely wants to be with me, because I’m concerned about his past? If he doesn’t judge me for mine, shouldn’t I offer him the same benefit of the doubt?
But then I remind myself of what I saw. Lark and Sheryl at couple’s counseling. And of what I’ve heard from Sheryl herself. All her hopeful looks and bright smiles when she talked about Lark. I cannot get between them. Not if there’s a chance their marriage could still be saved.
If it were me in Sheryl’s shoes, I’d want me to walk away right now. So that’s what I need to do. Even if I’m pretty sure I’m breaking both of our hearts as I do.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Lark is saying, and he’s not smiling anymore. Neither am I. I guess we’ve both given up on trying to hide it for the time being. He’s gazing into my eyes like he wants to memorize everything he sees there, every single inch of me.
I know what he’s feeling, because I’m doing the exact same thing. Gazing at him like my last glimpse of land before I submerge at sea, with no hope of rescue in sight.
I swallow hard, aware of the sudden lump tightening my throat. “Yeah. Me too.”
He takes a slow, careful step forward.
Every nerve ending in my body stands on end. His scent, so close now, envelops me, makes me dizzy with want. “Can I ask you for one last favor?” Lark asks, his voice lower now. So quiet that if I wasn’t holding my breath, I might have missed it.
“Anything,” I breathe, before I can think better of it.
“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 mor
e. 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.
Kiss Me Now Page 13
