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“I like Catamount. And just because I couldn’t handle a friendship two years ago doesn’t mean I would allow those reporters to hassle you. I know how much you value your privacy.” All of which was true.
Yet, as he glanced her way again, his gaze snagged on the vee of her blouse and the shadowed patch of skin that hinted at her cleavage without being revealing. And he acknowledged that part of the reason he’d offered her a ride today was because he’d been floored to see her again.
He’d been in the Routt County Courthouse to establish conservatorship of his mother, who suffered from dementia. And he’d recognized Lark immediately, even from twenty-five yards behind her. Her all-business walk. Her feminine shape that her conservative outfits could never fully hide. And that perfectly straight hair, plaited with precision and clamped with a soft scrap of white cotton instead of a hair tie.
He’d tied those thin strips of cloth himself many times in the past, and he happened to know that it protected her from tresses from split ends. Watching the braid sway ever so slightly while she walked had been his downfall today, distracting him from the sports media who’d been lying in wait for him. How the hell had they learned he’d be in court today? He needed to keep out of the news cycle, damn it.
“In that case, thank you for the lift.” She reached for the air vent and tilted it to blow higher on her face. “I want no part of the spotlight.”
He didn’t blame her. The media hadn’t been kind to her. In an effort to shift the conversation away from unhappy memories, he asked, “Should I take you to Crooked Elm? Or do you need to return to the courthouse later? If we wait half an hour, the press will clear out.”
“My car is back there, but I’d rather not chance returning for it.” Folding her arms, she crossed her legs at the same time, her body language broadcasting how much she’d rather be almost anywhere besides in this car with him. “If you don’t mind dropping me off at Crooked Elm, I’ll ride in with my sisters tomorrow.”
“Not a problem. I’m headed home anyway.” The ranch he’d bought for his retirement from hockey shared a property line with the Barclay land, in fact, so taking her home couldn’t be easier. He remembered from their talks before they split that she wasn’t happy he’d decided to keep the home they’d once planned to live in together.
When she spoke again, her words were clipped, cool. “I appreciate it, Gibson. But this should be the last we see of each other while I’m in town. As you pointed out two years ago, there’s no need to maintain a friendship.”
Way to draw the battle lines, Lark.
He shouldn’t be surprised, and yet the pinch of disappointment caught him off guard. Hehadmoved on since their divorce, hadn’t he? He’d dated, but nothing serious, and no one around here.
“If that’s your preference, I’ll certainly honor it,” he said carefully, driving around a tractor with tires that spilled over into the opposite lane. “But let me know if you need any help managing the media.”
She pivoted in her seat, her arms wrapping tighter around her midsection. “What do you mean?”
“You heard them back there. They recognized you. I’m sure someone snapped a photo of us together before you got into the car.” He wasn’t sure why she’d looked at the reporters when he’d offered her the ride, but then, her life hadn’t involved ducking the media for the past two years so maybe she’d forgotten the drill.
Head bent. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
Her small moan of dismay was so unlike the self-possessed woman he recalled from their marriage, that he did a double take. Had that sound emanated from Lark Barclay?
And how wrong was it for him to feel a sharp bolt of need to inspire that sound again—for purely carnal reasons?
“I forgot about that,” she admitted, seeming to recover herself. Or at least, she shifted to look out the window again, away from him. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
With an effort, he swallowed the urge to pull the car over and face her head-on. He wanted to look into those forest-green eyes. Try to read what was going on in her thoughts. Or maybe finally understand what had happened to send her running from their marriage.
“I heard about your father contesting your grandmother’s will.” He’d liked Antonia Barclay tremendously. She was strong, feisty and endlessly competent, managing a large property on her own long after her family had left the area. During the occasional visits he made to Catamount to set up his home here, she had encouraged him to try his hand at ranching even after things went to hell between him and Lark. “I assume you’ll be at the courthouse again soon. And there’s a good chance the sports media will figure that out too, so they could be waiting to ambush you next time. If there’s anything I can do—”
“Definitely not.” She reached into the small brown bag she carried at her hip and withdrew her cellphone, an obvious social cue that she was done with the conversation. “Whatever happens, I’ll handle it. Alone.”
Same as ever.
Gibson increased his speed and refocused on the road, determined to end Lark’s ordeal of having to sit beside him as soon as possible. He’d known she’d been hurt when things ended between them, but he’d always assumed she’d be happier without him. That she would move on faster since she was the one who’d decided to call it quits in the first place.
Now? He wondered if she’d recovered from their split any more than he had. He could have sworn he’d seen a hint of the old spark in her gaze when she’d first locked eyes with him today.
He’d felt the answering heat.
Fought the desire to act on it. For now, at least.
But his fierce competitive streak had helped drive him to the top of his career. And right now, that same hungry instinct hounded him to rekindle an old flame.
Two
The morning after her encounter with Gibson, Lark moved through the brightly tiled kitchen that had once belonged to her grandmother, flipping on the coffeemaker as she glanced outside the open window above the apron sink. The scent of late summer wildflowers filtered in on the warm breeze.
Dragging in deep breaths of fresh air, Lark told herself to enjoy the time here in her grandmother’s house. This was real life, not whatever was happening online in the sports media world where she’d been photographed with Gibson the day before. Picking out the scents and sights of wild bergamot, fireweed, blanket flowers and columbine, Lark used the grounding technique she often taught in counseling sessions to calm her morning’s anxieties about being back in the media spotlight, if only for the day. She’d also downloaded an app on her phone to try to minimize her exposure to social media, a trick she’d learned while still married to Gibson. She wouldn’t get caught up in the old spirals of negative thinking that had always resulted from being married to an elite athlete.
