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Then he pulls back, steps away from me, and the cold air of his apartment rushes between us cruelly once more. 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.
