Chapter 15 Having A Lark （Lena）
XV
Having A Lark
(Lena)
Hello, disaster. My name is Lena.
It’s the second time I’m waking up next to Brady Pruitt, and it feels like my heart is doing backflips.
It’s official.
I’m feeling things.
Warm, gooey, butterfly-kissed things that no self-respecting woman should ever feel over an arrangement that’s a total fraud.
This is fake.
Fake!
I scream it at my inner self, but of course she’s too busy basking in the sugary afterglow.
That’s a problem, isn’t it? With his big arms around me and his soft breath falling against my hair, this doesn’t seem remotely unreal.
Not even a little.
And the way he touched me last night didn’t feel fake.
It felt like the realest thing in the universe.
We have a contract, though.
We have a flipping expiration date.
A moment in time and space and heartache where we’ll part ways as planned. The more attached I get, the more it’s going to break me when that moment comes.
Just because we’ve had gravity-defying sex and his mother likes me doesn’t mean we’re meant to be anything more than temporary partners for a very strange deal.
My heart finally gets the message my brain keeps sending. The gooey feeling fades, replaced by anxiety.
Awesome. So much better.
I’m breathing faster, and his arms tighten around me.
Even in his sleep, it’s like he’s tuned to my mental state with this instinct to protect me—even from myself.
And I remember the way he held me when I broke down and spilled about Harry—the breakdowns I’ve been having way too often lately—and all the sweet things Brady said.
The way he convinced me it’s not my fault.
That sticks in my head like bubble gum to hair. Impossible to separate without hacking it out.
I roll over, pressing my lips to his collarbone, careful not to wake him. Brady doesn’t stir, but he makes a soft sound of contentment and slides his leg between mine.
I breathe with my eyes closed until my nervousness fades and the confusion settles, just letting myself be.
This doesn’t have to be so complicated.
We can enjoy each other just fine.
We can enjoy the time we have, and at the end of it, we can still walk away as friends.
Oh, but doesn’t that feel satisfying?
Friends.
That word feels ludicrously pale compared to whatever the hell we are now.
Not friends, but not together.
Well, technically we’re pseudoengaged. To the world at large, we’re a smiling power couple, counting down the days to our extravagant happily-ever-after.
But technically doesn’t have a smidge of reality, much less a real, heartfelt love story behind it.
I’m not sure what this story means, besides having more money in my life, and that scares me more than anything.
My eyes flick to Brady again. The stubble that left a rash on my inner thigh. The way his eyelashes cast half moons across his cheek.
A proud nose that might be too big for his face if it wasn’t for his strong, sculpted jaw.
A strong face, Mom would say. All carved lines and princely features designed to trap hearts.
He rocks masculine beauty in a way that makes my breath catch like a hiccup every time I see him.
That smile too. That ridonkulous smile.
I don’t know how he does it, turning it on and chasing the shadows away with every effortless grin.
Smiling certainly comes easier for him than me.
That probably has a lot to do with spending his life in front of the media.
When he smiles for me, it’s different from the million-dollar grin I’ve seen scattered across the internet a hundred times.
A little more genuine. Infinitely warmer.
And yes, I’m a sucker for big blue eyes. Like chips of sky brought down to be windows to a very kind soul. The way they darken when they look at me—
God.
I am so completely screwed. So far in over my head I’m basically a pretzel.
Casual was my thing after Harry. And when we agreed to do this, I never expected it to turn physical, especially not this fast.
What happens if we can’t stop? What if we can’t—
A knock at the door rips me out of my brooding.
My heart lunges up my throat, adrenaline pumping through my limbs. My brain races through every possibility.
Harry, returning for revenge? Unlikely this early in the morning.
Elle? Nah. She’s off in LA this week with billionaire bae for some illustrators conference. Plus, she’s never been a big drop-in girl.
Dr. Ezzie? Impossible. She never comes over, though I think she technically knows where I live.
We’ve never quite touched the friends side of colleagues, even if there’s massive respect on both sides. Probably the age difference, and she also has her own life to worry about.
Work doesn’t leave me much time for a lot of socializing between the long hours and everything it takes out of me. I should work on that, I know.
Another drumming knock sends me out of bed, though, scattering for something to throw on.
I grab a robe from the back of a chair and tie it around my waist as I head through the tiny apartment to the door and open it without looking.
There, standing on my front porch, is the sweetest old lady with the mind of a twenty-year-old master criminal.
Grandma Lark, or just Gran to the world.
She’s got a classic yellow raincoat over her flowery blue dress, rubber boots pulled up to her knees, and a steaming plate covered with a tea towel in her hands.
She’s in her seventies now, and although she sometimes plays the poor-old-lady card, she’s as spry as I am.
She could probably leave me in the dust.
Technically, she’s Elle’s grandma. We’re not blood related or anything.
But we’ve also been close for as long as I can remember, ever since I used to run up to her door as a kid and she’d bribe me with handfuls of chocolate for helping her pull weeds in her garden. Or the many times my bestie and I fought over coloring books and Gran would make us talk it out over tea.
“Gran! I wasn’t expecting you today.” I hide my surprise with a big smile.
She gives me a weird look, which—fine, I deserve. It’s not like her popping in is a rare occurrence.
If anything, it’s a weekly event. We only live a few houses apart, and she loves dropping by.
Mostly to gossip, the shameless old bird.
But I love her.
And I love the plate she pushes at me before she says a word, which smells like heaven. “I brought banana bread for breakfast. And flowers.”
I eye the bunch of flowers she’s handing over, obviously from her garden. They smell just as good as the bread.
I accept them with my brain ticking, trying to think of a way out of this. Brady is still in my room, dead to the world.
Maybe I can make it quick and usher her out before he wakes up.
Then again, it’s a risky game to ever push Gran out quickly.
But I can’t turn her away, or she’ll definitely suspect something’s up.
It’s a Sunday morning, not a day where I typically need to rush out for work—with the clinic closed.
“Get in here before you drown out there,” I say, making a point of yawning as I open the door wider to let her in.
It’s still raining steadily outside.
Brady’s shoes are still by the door, and I pick them up the second she’s turned her back, stuffing them under a cushion.
“Hmm? I suppose so. Time moves different when you’re old.”
“You’re only old in body, Gran! Not spirit.” I set her offerings on my small table, then grab a couple plates and a knife as she settles in without being asked. “Coffee?”
“I’m down to two cups a day, and I already had ’em. Anything more gives me rabbit shits.”
“Gran!”
“Like you said, old in body. I’ll have some tea if you’ve got it.” She cackles as she unwraps her latest baked masterpiece.
“Sure.” I put the kettle on the stove and bring out the French press for myself. Haven’t splashed money on a fancy coffee maker yet—not like Brady’s espresso machine—but I still like my coffee good.
Only the finest Hawaiian-grown brew from Wired Cup in this house—a local coffee chain with a lot of drama a few years back. I’m not sure why Seattle draws eccentric billionaires like magnets.
I only add a splash of cream and sugar too. Nothing like Dr. Ezzie, who drinks hers instant and bulletproof style, so thick with butter and cream the teaspoon practically stands up in the cup.
“Thanks for the goodies,” I say as I find a vase in my cabinet for the flowers. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking me for a date.”
She gives me a scorned look. “Young lady, if the only folks who ever give you flowers are trying to jump your bones, you’re—” Her face splits into a grin. “Well, you’re still young, that’s what I say.”
I wince.
The last thing you need from your adopted grandmother is a lecture on bone jumping.
“I meant to say—” I stop. I have no idea what I meant, and I don’t have time to figure it out, because that’s the exact second Brady walks out of my room, yawning like a cave bear waking up.
Of course, he’s shirtless and magnificent. Washboard abs on full display, jeans slung low on his hips as he runs a sleepy hand through his hair.
Yep, I’m doomed.
There’s no way I’m explaining this away now.
That doesn’t stop me from trying.
“Gran, this is my friend Brady,” I say hastily. “He, um . . . he stopped by last night for a chat.”
I suck at this so hard.
Brady’s eyebrows fly up, and the corner of his mouth twitches as he sees I’m not alone.
If he could stop being so amused, that would be awesome.
“Brady?” Gran’s eyes narrow like a hawk, and she pulls out the seat beside her. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. Put some clothes on and join us for breakfast. Lena was just getting started.”
He gives a lazy grin and winks at me—winks!—and then strolls back into the bedroom to find his shirt, still tugging it over his head as he returns.
“Mm, coffee smells good. Thanks, Sass,” he says as he drops into the chair.
Gran gives me a look. The awkward grin plastered on my face might break it.
When she looks away, I fire Brady an evil eye as I work on steeping Gran’s tea.
He just grins right back at me again like it’s all a huge joke.
Cocky prick.
“So, you’re the man who’s warming my Lena’s bed?”