“Good to see you, ya little shit,” I say as I wrap my arms around him. He’s an inch taller than me, built of lean, powerful muscle that’s solid beneath my arms. He claps me hard twice on the back as though proving his strength. “How long will you be gracing us with your presence in Boston?”
“Just until Monday.”
“Or you could just stay permanently.”
“Hard pass.”
We part enough to press our foreheads together, something we’ve done since the very first moment I held him in my arms in the hospital room back in Sligo the day he was born. When he takes a step back, Fionn scrutinizes the details of my face with clinical intensity. “You look miserable.”
“And you look like a dickhead with your feckin’ bag of birdseed.”
“Omega fatty acids decrease inflammation and LDL cholesterol,” he says as I pass by to enter Rowan’s apartment, a space that takes up the entirety of the third floor in the narrow building.
“I’m sure they do. They also increase your chance of looking like a dickhead, Dr. Kane.”
Fionn chatters on about fatty acids and brain inflammation as he trails behind me down the hallway that opens to the living space of exposed brick and industrial windows. Our friend Anna casts me a wave from the kitchen, where she’s making a pair of martinis. There’s a small but fierce-looking woman sitting on the couch with a broken leg propped on the coffee table, her black cast adorned with a single gold star sticker. I realize she’s the one Rowan has been texting me about, the injured motorcycle circus performer who’s somehow found herself staying at Fionn’s place in Nebraska and who he says Sloane befriended after a crutch-wielding incident. Fionn introduces her as Rose but seems unwilling to provide any context for their relationship, which I file away for later so I can take the piss out of him. Judging by the snarky smirk on Rose’s lips, she’s thinking the same. Rowan and Sloane’s demonic cat, Winston, sits next to her raised foot, his tail flopping from one side to the other as though he’s contemplating how quickly he could bite off one of her exposed toes. My attention lands next on Sloane, who rises from her chair to approach me with a wary smile.
And then she moves aside and my breath catches as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen steps into view. Her bright-blue eyes lock on me, her plump lips curved in a sly but warm smile, her glossy, honey-colored waves cascading across her shoulder. I think I should say something, or do something, but I can’t seem to do anything but stare.
“Lachlan,” Sloane says.
I swallow and replace my shock with a forced smirk as I tear my attention away from the unfamiliar woman and focus on Sloane. “Spider Lady. How are your crafting hobbies going these days? Made any new projects?”
Her eyes narrow. Even though she could pry my eyeballs out of my head, she’s still so fun to antagonize.
“What about sketches? Leave any more bird drawings behind for my lovesick little brother?”
Sloane’s cheeks flame crimson and my smile spreads as I hold the bottle of whiskey out for her to take, but before she can grab it, Fionn whips it from my hand as he passes between us. She doesn’t so much as glance at Fionn, her attention locked on me as though she’s trying to communicate a warning in her lightless glare. “Lachlan, this is my friend Lark.”
I shift my focus to Lark and hold out a hand. When she takes a step closer, the details of her face blur and I curse myself for leaving my glasses in the car. I might not be able to see the finest features of her smile at this distance, but I can feel it, her energy a lick of warmth on my skin. My gaze drops to our hands. An electric hum zings through my flesh at her touch.
“Lark Montague. Pleased to meet you,” she says. There’s a devious edge in her, like a vibration that slips between our palms. “So, you’re the notorious Lachlan Kane.”
“Notorious?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
“Indeed. I’ve heard … things.”
“Oh, you’ve heard things, have you? What kinds of … things?”
She giggles and slips her hand free of mine as she says, “Well, I think the word ‘broody’ might have been tossed around.”
“Now, now,” Fionn chides as he brings me a glass of whiskey on ice. “Don’t mischaracterize my poor brother. I said he’s a broody asshole.”
“Asshat,” Rose pipes up. “You said he’s a ‘broody asshat whose only hobby is scowling.’”
Sloane snorts. “Accurate.”
“Hey, I do more than just scowl.” I lean closer to Lark and give her a lopsided, rakish smile. “I have hobbies.”
She laughs when I give her a wink. “Oh yeah? Like what, crochet? I could see you being a big crochet guy. I bet you make a mean doily.”
Rose cackles, her eyes dancing from one person to the next. “Nah, that’s doc’s forte—”
My brother chokes on a sip of whiskey. “Rose—”
“He’s in a club, actually—”
“Fucksakes, Rose—”
“They meet every Sunday. It’s called the Suture Sisters, and he’s the—” Rose’s next words are lost to the palm my brother clamps over her mouth, her diabolical laugh replacing whatever would have come next. The look that Fionn gives me is both horrified and pleading.
“Don’t tell Rowan,” he begs. “I finally got the upper hand by resurrecting his Shitflicker nickname when he came to Nebraska.”
I bellow a laugh and shake my head. “My sweet, adorable, naive baby brother. Of course I’m going to tell Rowan. It’s my job to promote the maximum amount of conflict between you two. That’s the only way I can get any peace.” I clap a hand to his shoulder and slip past him to take a seat on one of the leather armchairs. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but you’re still in your peak Sadman Cinderwhatever era with this doily shit. Rowan is going to love this.”
Fionn tosses out some nonsensical explanation, something about a flyer and a simple misunderstanding, but I don’t really pay much attention. Not when Lark follows to sit across from me on the end of the couch. Sloane’s psycho cat curls in her lap the moment she’s settled.
I can see her much clearer at this distance, from the mole on the edge of her upper lip to the ripple in the skin near her hairline, a cut that must have been left unmended and healed with jagged edges. But even though I couldn’t see her clearly, she’d be impossible to miss. All the energy in the room seems to siphon through her and concentrate before it radiates through her bright blue eyes and her glowing skin and her easy smile. It pours through her laugh and warms the notes of her voice. And even though I’m not listening to the good-natured argument between Fionn and Rose, she is. She interjects just frequently enough to bolster the person she seems to think is losing in a given moment, which is mostly Fionn. Do you take commissions? Or, I bet you could make a killing on Etsy. She focuses every ounce of her attention on the person talking while her hand trails through Winston’s fur, his purr rumbling beneath the conversation. It’s as though nothing and no one else in the world exists, even me. If she can feel the weight of my gaze on her face, she never lets on.
Lark Montague is beautiful.
And I have to stop staring like a feckin’ creep.
I look down at the drink in my hands. Scars hidden beneath ink. The missing tip of my index finger. Tattoos on my knuckles. Silver rings. I tap one against the glass before I raise it to my lips. My hands would look so good on her perfect skin. Folded around her soft thighs. The image of my tattooed fingers gripped around her smooth flesh has me shifting in my seat in a failed attempt to alleviate the strain of my hard cock against my zipper. Someone like me with someone like her? Even imagining it feels wrong.
Yet so deliciously right.
When I look up again, the doily argument is still going, but Lark’s eyes connect with mine, her smile conspiratorial. It’s just a flash of camaraderie before she turns her attention back to Fionn and Rose, but there’s something in that brief grin that sticks with me. A silent conversation. A familiarity I can’t explain.
Even after the conversation takes other turns, that feeling stays with me. It’s like there’s a thin thread binding us together. And as Lark seizes the opportunity to slip away to the balcony when she seems to think her absence won’t be noticed, that connection tugs at my chest. Though I spend a few minutes trying to snip it free, it still pulls, and it doesn’t loosen even after I follow.
When I slide the balcony door open, Lark doesn’t move from where she leans against the railing, as though she’s been expecting me.
“Hey.” It’s not my most slick opening line, I know. But Lark still smiles when she glances over her shoulder at me.
“Hey. You’re not coming out here to be an asshat, are you?”
I chuckle, shutting the door behind me. “No, that’s only weekdays from nine to five. The rest of the time I just brood.”
“That just sounds so wrong,” she says through a tinkling laugh. “It’s like you spend your evenings in a chicken coop sitting on a clutch of eggs. But somehow it kinda makes sense with your brother’s doily vibe.”
“You’re right, scratch that.”
She snorts. “Scratch? You’re really wedded to the chicken puns, aren’t you.”
“Oh my dear Christ. This is the least smooth opening I’ve ever had. Let me start again.” I turn around and head inside. I can hear her laughing through the glass as I open the door again and step back out onto the balcony. “What a lovely evening. Mind if I join you? I know nothing about chickens, by the way.”
“That’s good. The last guy was way too into poultry.”
“He sounds like a feckin’ asshat. Feather fetishes aren’t really my thing.”
“Such a shame, I do love a bit of feather play—”