Chapter 12
LARK
My guitar rests across my lap, phone propped precariously against a stack of books on the living room floor.
I’m cross-legged, trying to record the bridge section for a song I wrote last night when sleep was impossible.
My fingers find the chord progression again, and I’m about to hit record when my phone buzzes loudly.
The notification covers half my makeshift recording setup.
Jack: Need to go over Miami stuff. Can I stop by?
We’ve seen each other exactly twice since the almost-kiss at Theo’s gazebo three days ago—once at the gym, and once at the coffee shop for a very public lunch—and both times we pretended absolutely nothing happened.
Which is the right move. The smart, mature move.
Even if I keep replaying that moment on an endless loop, when he leaned down and I went up on my toes and we were so close I could feel his breath warm on my lips.
God knows I wanted desperately to kiss him, and much more than that.
Every time I think about it, which is approximately every four minutes like clockwork, my heart does this ridiculous racing thing that makes me feel like a teenager with her first crush instead of a grown woman who should absolutely know better.
Me: Sure. When?
Jack: 20 mins?
I look around my apartment with fresh horror. Half-empty coffee cups on every available surface forming a timeline of my caffeine addiction, and clothes scattered everywhere, including the bra hanging off the back of a chair from when I’d flung it off last night after getting home from work.
Me: See you then!
I spend the next fifteen minutes frantically shoving things into closets and drawers in what I call my “oh shit someone’s coming over” dance—a frenzied ritual of grabbing armfuls of random stuff and shoving them anywhere they might possibly fit.
Why couldn’t I be one of those naturally tidy people who never have to panic clean?
I kick a pile of sheet music under the couch, toss three days’ worth of empty coffee cups into the sink with a clatter, and nearly dislocate my shoulder trying to force my closet door shut against the avalanche of clothes and random junk threatening to spill out like a dam breaking.
The hinges make an ominous creaking sound, like they’re plotting revenge.
I then make a desperate dash to the bathroom mirror, where I’m confronted with the harsh reality of what happens when you wash your hair before bed, sleep on it wet, throw it in a bun all day, and then release it from captivity right before an attractive man shows up at your door.
It’s a disturbing cross between 80s hair band volume and “just stuck my finger in an electrical socket” texture.
I attempt to tame it with wet fingers, which only makes certain sections go flat while others reach new ambitious heights of rebellion.
“Traitor,” I mutter at my reflection, digging frantically through bathroom drawers for a hair tie, lip balm, anything that might make me look less like I’ve been living in a cave for the past week.
I’m debating whether to change out of my ratty old University of Washington sweatshirt when I hear his motorcycle pull up outside.
Through the window, I watch him take off his helmet, and it’s completely unfair how good he looks.
Some people are just the universe’s favorites, blessed with genetic coding that makes them look like they stepped out of a magazine spread even after a motorcycle ride.
He’s carrying something—a bottle of wine, it looks like.
My stomach does that flutter thing again. Harder this time. Shit. I definitely should have changed into a cuter outfit.
I open the door before he can knock. “Hey,” I say, aiming for casual but it comes out sounding vaguely creepy and weirdly deep like I’m auditioning for a horror movie.
He hesitates slightly, his smile faltering for just a second before returning. “Hey,” he says, holding up the wine bottle. “Figured we should plan this Miami thing out properly instead of winging it. And planning requires wine. It’s just science.”
“Oh, well if it’s science,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. His dimples are making me feel dangerously light-headed in a way that cannot possibly lead anywhere good. Jack Midnight has a reputation for a reason, and men like him don’t suddenly change their entire approach to relationships.
I can’t let myself do what I desperately want to do. No, absolutely not. Keep it together, Reyes.
“Were you working on something?” he asks, noticing my guitar and the makeshift recording setup immediately. His eyes linger on the notebook I’ve hastily closed, curiosity evident in the slight tilt of his head. “I can come back tomorrow if this is a bad time—”
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “I was just messing around. Nothing important.”
“Your music’s not nothing important,” he says in a matter-of-fact way that makes my cheeks flush.
“Well, uh, Miami planning,” I say, changing the subject before I say something embarrassing. “That’s why you’re here, right?”
“Right,” he says. “Miami.”
I get wine glasses from the cabinet while he opens the bottle. He brought a nice Oregon Pinot Noir, and we settle on my couch with his phone pulled up to the weekend schedule.
“Friday there’s a big sponsor event. Miami does this motorsports festival every year.
GT racing, demos, the whole thing. It’s not Formula One, but all the teams send people for sponsor obligations and PR.
Some of my old teammates will be there, plus drivers from other teams. Pretty major event for corporate networking.
Press will be everywhere. Plenty of opportunities for photos. ”
“Sounds good,” I say as I take a sip of wine. “What else?”
“Friday night there’s also a big gala event hosted by a real estate developer named Bernard Montgomery.
Black tie, lots of press, sponsors, team executives.
” He scrolls through his phone. “Saturday’s more casual, a bunch of press interviews and sponsor obligations throughout the morning.
You don’t have to come to those if you don’t want to.
Could just be me doing the boring corporate stuff. ”
“No, I want to come,” I say immediately. “This stuff is pretty interesting to me. Seeing how all of it works behind the scenes.”
And it is fascinating. Jack is so passionate about racing that it’s infectious. I’ve even been watching a few of his old races on YouTube and they’re thrilling. Though I’d convinced myself that was just research, part of being a convincing fake girlfriend. Nothing more.
He looks up from his phone, something warm in his expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Plus more photo ops, right? That’s kind of the whole point.” I take another sip of wine. “And honestly, watching you do press interviews sounds entertaining. I want to see your media-trained face in action.”
“Oh, you’ll love it. I have this whole repertoire,” he says, his expression shifting through different variations of the same polite smile. “Confident but humble. Grateful for the opportunity. Excited about the future. I can do all of them while saying absolutely nothing of substance.”
I’m laughing now, and Jack’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin warm all over. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, but his smile softens. “You just… you have a great laugh.”
I take another sip of wine to have something to do with my hands, which suddenly feel awkward and too big for my body. When did compliments from Jack start hitting me so differently than from anyone else? It’s like his words bypass all my normal defenses and land somewhere deeper, more vulnerable.
“So what were you working on?” he asks, nodding toward my guitar, his eyes brightening with interest. “When I interrupted?”
“Just a new song,” I say, trying to sound casual even though my pulse picks up. “It’s not ready yet. Still figuring out the bridge. It’s called ‘Magnolia Street.’ It’s about growing up and my mom teaching me piano.”
“Can I hear it?” he asks.
Oh no. “It’s really rough,” I warn, taking a big sip of wine for courage.
“Let’s hear it,” he says, leaning back into the couch cushions, making himself comfortable.
He looks good here, in my cluttered apartment with its secondhand furniture and mismatched throw pillows.
Too good. Like he belongs. It does dangerous things to my imagination, making me picture other nights like this, him bringing wine after work, talking for hours, staying until morning.
I pick up my guitar, take a deep breath, and start playing.
The opening chords are gentle, nostalgic, pulling me back to childhood.
I keep my eyes fixed on my fingers moving across the frets, not daring to look up, because I can feel Jack watching me.
The weight of his gaze is a physical sensation against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.
The song builds as it goes, the melody swelling, and by the time I reach the final chorus, I’ve forgotten to be nervous. I’m just singing, letting the music flow through me the way it’s supposed to, the way it feels when everything clicks.
When I finish, there’s a moment of silence that stretches between us like a living thing. I finally look up at Jack, and the expression on his face steals my breath. He’s completely still, lips slightly parted, eyes dark and intent.
“That was beautiful,” he says. The timbre of it sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. “Really beautiful, Lark.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly shy under the intensity of his gaze. “It’s still a work in progress.”
“It’s perfect as it is,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes me believe him.
We look at each other for a moment too long, and I feel that same pull from the gazebo. That magnetic thing that keeps drawing me to him despite all the reasons I should stay away.