“It’s actuallymoredepressing when you put it that way,” she says, but she’s starting to smile. “I wasn’t even interesting enough to mock online. I couldn’t even fail spectacularly enough to go viral.”
“I thought you were very interesting,” I say, leaning my elbows on the bar, closing the distance between us slightly. The familiar scent of her perfume—something with vanilla and spice—mingles with the scents of the bar. “The voice crack? Fascinating artistic choice. Very avant-garde.”
“Jerk,” she laughs, swatting me on the arm.
I try to ignore the small surge of pleasure I get from making her laugh like this. Three days since the performance, and this isthe first real laugh I’ve gotten out of her. It’s ridiculous how good it feels to see that smile again, to know I put it there.
“Thanks for trying to make me feel better,” she says.
“Is it working?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and taking another deliberately slow sip of my beer, watching her over the rim of the glass.
“Maybe,” she admits, finally putting her phone face-down on the bar and actually leaving it there. “At least the label didn’t see it. That’s something.”
“There’s that positive attitude I know and love,” I say with a smirk.
“Hey Midnight!” Mike calls from the pool table, his voice carrying across the mostly empty bar. “You said ‘one quick beer’ fifteen minutes ago. You playing or what?”
Lark’s eyes dance with amusement as she looks at me. “You know he’s right. You did promise him a rematch.”
“I didn’t realize you were so eager to get rid of me,” I say, leaning slightly closer over the bar, dropping my voice lower.
“Oh, I’m not,” she says with a smirk that does things to me. “But I can’t have it on my conscience that Jack Midnight doesn’t honor his sacred pool commitments. Plus you’ve successfully distracted me from my own spiral, happy?”
“Very,” I say, sliding off the barstool. “Don’t check your phone while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” she calls after me.
I head back to the pool table where Mike’s already racking the balls, a shit-eating grin on his face like he genuinely thinks he’s got a chance in hell of winning this time. I grab my cue, line up my shot, but my eyes keep drifting back to the bar. Toher.
This was supposed to be simple. A straightforward deal. A business arrangement with clear boundaries. I help her get Instagram followers and music industry attention, she helps me look stable and responsible for my racing contract and sponsors.No complications. Just two people helping each other out for mutual benefit.
But nothing with Lark feels simple anymore. I can’t stop thinking about her. Every time I’m near her, I want to be closer. Every time I leave, I’m counting the hours until I see her again.
Thursday evening I pull up to Lark’s apartment building on my bike. I’ve been looking forward to this all day, way more than I should be for what’s technically a fake date. Just another performance, though this time for my family. I’m just shutting off the engine when Lark comes out the front door of her building.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
She’s wearing this deep burgundy skirt that hugs her hips perfectly and shows off legs that go on for miles, paired with a silky cream-colored top that dips just low enough to make my mouth go completely dry. Her dark hair is loose in soft waves, and she looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had, walking toward me with that little half-smile that drives me absolutely crazy.
“You’re on time,” she says, sounding surprised as she approaches. “I figured I’d have at least five minutes to panic about what I’m wearing and change three more times.”
“You look…” I trail off, momentarily unable to find words that won’t get me slapped or make this weird. Amazing? Gorgeous? Fuck-me stunning? “Perfect.”
She rolls her eyes but I catch the flush spreading across her cheeks. “Thanks. I figured I should make an actual effort for the whole family dinner thing.”
Her eyes drop to my bike and she grimaces slightly. “Though I definitely didn’t plan this outfit with motorcycle riding in mind.”
“We could always take your car if you want,” I say.
“No, no, I actually like the bike,” she sighs, eyeing it. “I just didn’t think through the logistics of a skirt this short and your motorcycle. Poor planning on my part, but we’ll make it work.”
“You know,” I say, “no one at dinner will believe you’re with me when you look like that.”
“Please,” she scoffs, taking the spare helmet I offer her. “You could wear a literal trash bag and still look like…” She stops abruptly, her eyes widening.
“Like what?” I press, grinning now because I can’t help myself.
“Like someone who thinks entirely too highly of himself,” she finishes quickly, but the flush on her cheeks deepens.
