Yet as Gibson stroked her hair in the bedroom that had grown cool and dark now that the sun had set, Lark worried she didn’t have nearly enough emotional self-discipline to keep her heart out of this night.
Ten
Balancing drinks and two warmed meals on a bamboo serving tray, Gibson padded barefoot from the kitchen into the living area of the cabin. Lark sat on a carpet in front of the fireplace, her back against the low leather sofa.
The blaze in the hearth picked out a few burnished highlights in her dark hair where it spilled over her shoulders, still damp from a shared shower. She’d wrapped herself in a gray cashmere throw blanket while he prepared their food, but he remembered only too well what she wore beneath it. Clothes from his dresser—a black pair of cotton running shorts and one of his white silk undershirts.
Nothing else.
His grip tightened on the tray at the thought, which was amazing considering the release he’d found just half an hour earlier in the shower. And before that, in his bed. Yet already, he couldn’t wait to finish their meal so he could hear her sweet cries of completion all over again.
“Here you go.” He joined her on the floor, settling the tray between them. “Are you sure you’re comfortable enough?”
She tucked her knees under her as she reached for one of the cut-crystal glasses of water. “Never better,” she quipped, winking as she brought the drink to her lips. “I have enough feel-good endorphins floating through me right now to make me serene and relaxed most anywhere.”
“Then dig in,” he urged her, grateful for the way she could put him at ease even though the aftermath of this night had the potential to be awkward tomorrow. “I hope you like it.”
“Are you kidding?” She lifted the lid from her stoneware plate to reveal the almond chicken and brown rice meal she’d chosen from the options of catered meals he’d given her. “I haven’t been able to spoil myself like this since we...” Hesitating, her gaze slid to his. “Since we were together.”
The ease he’d been feeling evaporated. He’d tried his best to provide for her when they’d split, but she’d refused every effort, insisting she wanted nothing from him.
It had hurt knowing she rejected everything he had to offer, right down to his money.
“I don’t like to think about you economizing—”
“It’s not a financial issue. I didn’t mean that,” she hurried to explain, laying a hand on his wrist, stroking softly. “It’s just that I don’t make time for food planning anymore, let alone order things ahead of time. And it’s not as much fun cooking for one.”
At his nod, she forked up a bite of her food while he tried the whitefish in lemon sauce he’d heated for himself.
“That’s fair,” he acknowledged, even though the lingering reminder of rejection still made it tougher to settle into the moment again. “But I’ve been with the same meal service for over a year, and by now they know all my favorites. I don’t have to cook or plan anymore.”
He was about to launch into a pitch for her to share the service with him, but before he could, Lark spoke again.
“So tell me about this bison ranch you mentioned before.” She tucked into her meal again, looking at him expectantly.
The fire crackled while he thought about his answer, a spark shooting from the logs to glow briefly on the dark brick hearth before fading.
“I have a ranch manager and a business model already in place. I won’t purchase livestock until next spring so I can have all the necessary facilities built.” As he warmed to the subject, he explained about the animals’ ranging habits, their preference to remain out of doors.
He appreciated that she was interested. Her eyes didn’t glaze over the way other people’s tended to when he spoke about his plans. His agent had about a ten second attention span for bison.
“You don’t bring them into a barn?” she asked, brow furrowed in thought.
He’d forgotten what a good listener she was, how she engaged with him in a way that seemed effortless. No doubt, that was part of what made her successful as a counselor. In fact, long ago when she’d still been a practicing sports psychologist, Gibson had stepped into her office the first time because of a recommendation from a teammate.
But as soon they’d exchanged hellos, he knew that having her as a counselor wouldn’t be enough. He hadn’t continued his search for professional help, throwing himself into wooing Lark instead. But the past year he’d visited a therapist for a couple of sessions and realized some things about himself. His need for perfection in his sport. His relentless commitment to a team. Both qualities tied to his relationship with his father. The insights had helped him confirm his retirement was the right choice at this time.
Forcing his thoughts back to her question, he explained, “No barns for bison. They are tolerant of all kinds of weather conditions and get agitated if they’re in an enclosed space.” He told her about his trip to the Wyoming operation and his visit with the owner.
Which reminded him that she came from a long line of ranchers herself, her father notwithstanding. That made Lark’s input all the more valuable since she knew a lot about the life, having spent plenty of summers at Crooked Elm.
He didn’t tell her about her father’s jab about Gibson’s business future.
It’s not going to be easy maintaining the lifestyle of a sports star now that you’re...not.
The insult shouldn’t have gotten under his skin to the degree it had, but the affront had lodged in his brain. He had lucrative endorsement deals that would pay out for another decade. He’d invested a big chunk of his earnings yearly. No matter what Mateo Barclay said, Gibson knew he could afford to retire and live well for the rest of his days. Yet as a real estate developer, Lark’s father possessed a level of wealth well beyond Gibson’s portfolio.
“Can I ask what made you choose this direction? I mean, it sounds great. I’m just surprised. When we first talked about buying property here, I thought you were more interested in a recreational ranch.” She readjusted the blanket around her shoulders, the movement stirring the scent of his soap on her skin.