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.