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Surprised at the big undertaking for the mother he didn’t see often, Lark regretted her snarky thoughts. The starch in her spine wilted again as she watched Gibson stretch his long legs, one knee splayed so it rested inches from her own.
“That’s good of you.” Tugging another throw pillow out from behind her back, she hugged it in front of her instead. If she kept her hands gripping the cushion, she couldn’t possibly reach out to touch him. “And sorry to show up here unannounced. I had a run in with the media—”
“I saw you go on the offensive.” A wide grin stole over his features, white teeth glinting in the moonlight. “That was so freaking perfect.”
“That clip is already online?” She knew video snippets like that circulated fast, but that had to set a new record. “I only lost the last of the reporters half an hour ago. I was afraid they would be waiting for me at Crooked Elm and I didn’t know where else to go.”
And how messed up was it that the first place she thought of to duck the press was with Gibson? He’d been the one to bring them back to her doorstep to begin with.
“Wait. Someone was following you? Not the asshat who interviewed you in the first place.” His brow furrowed as he shifted to face her, his voice indignant. “The guy stole your mic just when you got going—”
Confused, she shook her head. “No. He retreated to his van after that. But there was a young woman filming from an unmarked car that pulled into Crooked Elm after the first guy. I have no idea who she worked for or how she knew to show up just then.”
The members of entertainment media were like bees that way. One member of the hive could spot something juicy and minutes later, a swarm amassed.
“Probably a freelancer hoping for a toe in at one of the big media outlets.” Gibson shook his head, his dark hair brushing his shoulders as he splayed his arms wide in a helpless gesture. “Although how anyone rationalizes stalking people for a living is sickening. Are you okay?”
His warm hand landed on her bare shoulder. A gesture of concern. Comfort, even.
Yet given how long it had been since they’d touched, the physical contact overrode her senses and short-circuited her brain. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t recall what he’d just said.
There was simply his hand. Touching her.
Lark’s heartbeat redoubled. Squeezing the pillow tighter, she willed herself to speak.
“This was a mistake.” Bolting upright from the seat, she took two long strides away from him, the swing’s chains jangling softly in her wake. “I should go home now.”
“Lark?” Soft concern laced Gibson’s voice as he rose to follow her. “What’s wrong? Did something happen with the press that we should report? Because if they crossed a line—”
He left the sentence half-finished as his gaze roved over her, as if checking to be sure she was still in one piece.
Old angers simmered anew, a welcome outlet for the fire still heating her blood from just a single touch of this man’s hand.
“Where exactly is the line these days anyway, Gibson? I’m not sure I’d have any idea what violates my privacy when you assured me that having cameras camped out around my garage every time you were in the headlines was normal.” Her fingers gripped the swing cushion so tight her fingernail popped off some of the beading near a tassel.
She slapped the silk-covered pillow onto a nearby table, frustrated at herself for letting her emotions get the best of her. For permitting the smallest caress to overwhelm her.
“They’re not allowed to touch you. They’re not allowed to block your way,” he repeated the guidelines she remembered well, his tone betraying his own agitation. “You know that.”
“Whereas speculating on our love life, asking me loaded questions to imply you were unfaithful to me every time you were on the road, and goading me to speak until they had a juicy sound bite, that’s all just fine.” Lark knew she needed to rein it in.
Her words were far too revealing. Not just to him, but even to herself. Hadn’t she put this behind her?
Hadn’t her confrontation with the reporter tonight proven she’d stopped hiding from them? That had been growth, damn it. So why was she reverting to a tired argument now?
Gibson’s hand on her.
“They’re gone now,” he reminded her, tipping one shoulder against a porch post so that moonlight outlined him. “You did a stellar job turning the tables on that jerk tonight. But I wish you’d tell me if they hassled you because we should report it.”
She wished he would argue with her. Debate the past. Remind her why they split in the first place. Any of it would be so much easier to bear than his concern. He wanted to take care of her, but she had to stand on her own. Because that was how she’d be again. Alone.
Added to the intimacy of the setting, alone in this house she’d once dreamed would be hers, and the way her skin still prickled where his fingers had sketched along her shoulder, Lark feared she couldn’t combat the impulse to throw herself into his arms.
“I’m fine.” She pressed her fingers to the center of her forehead, searching for the calm focus and grounded perspective that her patients always commented on in reviews of her practice.
Ms. Barclay has a way of slicing past the emotional noise of a problem to logically reason through the heart of it,read one of her personal favorites.
If only she had an inkling how to do that in her own life.
