Chapter 47
Lark
I’ve put this dress on and taken it off three times. Why am I going? What am I doing? Why do I want him to think I’m sexy? My appearance shouldn’t matter.
I take the dress off and slip on a pair of fitted jeans. And since the Yankees are playing today, I dig out my jersey from the dresser and slip it on over my head.
But what if we’re going to a nice restaurant?
Harbor said this is a do-over, which we also need to discuss. He did keep his promise. He came back to me just like he said he would.
As I angle in front of the bathroom mirror, the debate wages on. I bet he scored reservations at the hottest place in the city and plans to wine and dine me.
I’m not opposed to this scenario, especially since I now know what he did for me. Though I still don’t know why.
Screw it. Red dress it is, and I’ll wear the shoes he loved on me earlier in the week. I get dressed, grab my clutch, and then hurry to the street to wait, but as soon as I swing the door open, he’s already there. I don’t think he’s a sight I’ll ever get used to. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long.” I won’t complain that I don’t have to wait on him. It’s actually sweet that he showed up early. He opens the door, and adds, “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing like I’m twenty-one and standing with him in that convenience store all over again. I don’t regret the red dress.
Traffic isn’t bad, but we’re not getting anywhere fast either, so I beat around the bush, and ask, “Do you live in the city?”
A grin crosses his expression. “I do. I live in Tribeca.” I don’t know why this comes as such a shock, but it’s weird to think of him dwelling in the same town as me, yet we’re not together. Our lives felt so intertwined at one time that it feels unnatural not to know he lived here as well.
“Do you have a parking garage for your car? You seem to prefer to drive.”
“The building has a garage, and I have a reserved spot, a view of the city, and—”
“More than one room?”
His eyes stay on the road ahead. “Yes, more than one room.”
Taking the opportunity to look at him, really look at him, I see him in a new light. He’s handsome, too handsome to stare at for too long. I say, “I live in a studio near the hospital.”
“How’s that?”
“Good. Easy to maintain, which is good considering the number of hours I work.”
He nods, and then asks, “You work a lot?”
“I work a lot.”
He glances over. “How do you balance your social life with work?”
I start laughing. “I don’t. I traded a shift and went in this morning at four o’clock to be here with you thirteen hours later.”
He rests his arm between us, his hand so close but seemingly just out of reach. It feels wrong for some reason. Too far from me. “You didn’t have to do that, Lark. We can work around your schedule.”
I want to touch him, for him to touch me, to feel whole again.
“I wanted to.” I rest my arm next to his on the console. Casually . . . I’m thinking I’m not as slick as I thought because his gaze slides over our arms, lingering a few seconds, and then reaches my eyes.
Under the light of new information, I see him differently. The anger I clung to like a life preserver to save me, to give me something that made sense when he left, has disappeared overnight. “Thank you.”
Yale didn’t give me a scholarship. He did. Well, his parents, but he made the sacrifice. What did I do? I wallowed in the pain of my loss, not thinking he had any repercussions.
So much more makes sense now. The last time we were together, he shared so much with me about the tragedy of him and his cousin, the details I was always too afraid to ask because I wanted to avoid upsetting him. It brought up the pain of him leaving, not loving me enough to stay as well.
But I was wrong.
He left because he loved me. That was the only conclusion he came to, but I still need to hear him tell me. I thought that was why he asked for another chance a year ago.
It’s harder for me to remember the pain I was in when his intentions were good, generous, and because he loved me. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise. I just wish he would have trusted me enough to tell me back then. So much time has been wasted. And for what?
I slink my hand under his and look at him. He faces me with questions rising in his eyes but doesn’t dare tempt fate in the opposite direction we’re heading. His fingers fold together with mine, and though his eyes are forward on the road again, he’s smiling like he just won the lottery.
Since I’m in unfamiliar territory—emotionally and in Manhattan—I ask, “Where are you taking me?”
“To where I live. I thought it was only fair since I know where you live.”
I can’t wait to see where he lives. I don’t know enough about him these days to even have a prediction, but it doesn’t go unnoticed that he’s including me in all parts of his life—past and present.
Also, I’ve already duly noted that we’re in Tribeca, so he’s fancy just like he was back in college. Some things never change.
He pulls into a garage and then parks. Looking at me, he says, “I thought this would go differently.” He glances at our hands, twisting them and bringing them to his mouth, and kissing the top of mine.
“How did you see it?”
“I thought there’d be more animosity.” He releases my hand and turns off the car. When he comes around to my side to open the door, I slip my hand in his again and step out to stand before him. “Last time didn’t go as planned. I upset you.”
“I was still hurt.” I should be more nervous than I am, but I know what I’m doing, and it feels right.
“You’re not hurt anymore?”
I’m no longer scared to fall in love with him. I’m scared of losing him again. “I am hurt, Harbor, but I’m seeing things in a whole new way.”
“What changed?” He holds my hand, and we walk together to the elevator.
“Everything.”
We get in the elevator, and though I can see from the way his expression isn’t eased that he still has questions, he’s patient, willing to let them unfold naturally.
The doors open, and we walk down a hall. “I kind of expected you to live in a penthouse.”
He holds up a key card pulled from his pocket, and we gain entrance to the apartment. Shouldering it open, he says, “Hopefully, it doesn’t disappoint.”
I walk in, and my breath catches. My hand is against my chest as I take in a view of what feels like the entire city. Harbor guides me forward by the lower back and then shuts the door. “House sweet house.”
It’s a gorgeous space—like a loft in the sky.
It’s old New York in style with brick walls, warm wood cabinetry in the small kitchen, and matching floors that look to have seen some history.
The leather couch looks cozy with a blanket draped over one side and a fireplace facing it.
Other than barstools parked at the island, there’s a brass and glass dining table that seats six.
It’s right out of Architectural Digest, and that’s not even mentioning the terrace.
“It’s sweet indeed, but the phrase is home sweet home. ”
He leads me toward the large terrace. “A place could never be my home.”
I set my clutch down on the island, standing in the middle of the space. That’s when I spy a door leading to a bedroom. “Why not?”
Reaching over his shoulder to rub the back of his neck, he locks his eyes on mine. There’s a shared pause between us, causing my breath to slow. Then, as if he’s freed from a spell, he signals outside. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Really?” I ask with a surge of giddiness rolling up my spine.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.
Come on. Let me show you.” He moves to a button on the far brick wall of the space.
With the push of a button, the glass that covers most of the length slides on a track, bringing the outside in and us outside.
He walks onto the terrace and then disappears around the corner.
I follow him, not sure what to expect, which seems to be a running theme with him.
Around the corner is a table draped in white linens, votive candle holders, napkins, and silverware.
Off to the side, a brass cart with wine and a chilling bottle of champagne stands next to a decanter of what I assume to be whiskey by the amber color.
The lower shelf houses dishes and glasses of varying sizes.
I can assume they were protected from the wind until we arrived.
There’s only a gentle breeze tonight, and the weather is perfect.
It’s a great reminder of how perfect Harbor always was as well.
“This is magical. Better than any restaurant, and we get to share it alone instead of with half of New York.”
He’s grinning like he just won a hometown game, and says, “I’m glad you like it. I hoped you would.” He walks to the cart. “Can I make you a drink?”
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
He pulls two lowball glasses and drops ice from a bucket inside while I wander the expansive terrace. Beyond being in Tribeca, this place alone probably costs a fortune. I stand at the far edge near an arranged seating area and look across the city as far as I can see. “Incredible.”
“I could say the same.”
I turn to find him standing with two drinks in his hands, and his eyes already set on me. I swallow hard, feeling his gaze reach the deep recesses of my body and weaken my knees like he used to.
He hands me the glass, then taps his against mine. “To—”
“Us,” I say.
“To us.” He dips his head, and then we sip with our eyes locked together. He then holds his hand out, and says, “You up for cooking?”
“We’re making dinner?”
“I thought it might be fun.”
I take his hand as we walk back inside. “Thought you didn’t cook?”
“I don’t much, but I learned a few dishes while in Italy.” We reach the kitchen, and I see ingredients bundled in the corner of the counter.
I don’t recognize the brands, and they’re all in Italian. “You’re going to make pasta for me?”
“It’s the food of love. What else would I make for you?”