I nod, but I’m not giving up. Not yet, not until I’ve left it all on the field. “And I’m not the boy you remember, either. I’m a man with his head on straight and his heart in the right place who would love to get to know the woman you are now. And to prove to you he knows how to treat people he cares about.”
Lark lifts one bare shoulder, one bare, beautiful shoulder I will never press my lips to again if I can’t convince her to change her mind and shakes her head. “It’s too painful, Mason. I can’t do this with you. I don’t want to, and even if I did, I’m too busy. I have my family and a new niece and a business to run. This coming week will be the first time I’ve taken a vacation in over a year, and I can’t imagine—”
“You’re leaving town?” I ask. That would be just my luck, booking a weeklong stay at a motel in Bliss River the one week Lark won’t be here.
She shakes her head. “No, I’m stay-cationing at home. I’m exhausted, and tonight has only made me more exhausted. I just want to go home and sleep for twelve hours and forget this conversation ever happened.”
“That’s a great idea,” I agree, her words lighting a spark of inspiration. Maybe a second chance isn’t the right way to think about this. Maybe we need a completely fresh start. “Why don’t you go rest, have a relaxing day at home, and I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at six.”
Lark blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Let’s forget this conversation ever happened,” I say, praying she’ll go along with my spur-of-the-moment plan. “Let’s forget everything that’s ever happened between us. Pretend I’m an interesting stranger you met at a wedding who’s visiting Bliss River for the week and is dying for you to show him the sights. Give me one week to remind you why we should be together.”
“Mason, I can’t—”
“One week, seven dates,” I beg. “And if by this time next Saturday you still want nothing to do with me, I’ll leave Bliss River and never bother you again. If that’s what you want.”
Lark sighs, looking past me to where the wedding reception is still in full swing, her expression wistful. An upbeat song has just given way to a slow one, an old country ballad about forever love that makes me want to pull Lark into my arms to dance.
But I can’t.
Not yet, maybe not ever, unless…
“What do you have to lose?” I ask in a hushed voice. “Except two hundred pounds of annoying ex-boyfriend once the week is over?”
Her lips quirk, a tiny sign of hope that nevertheless sets my pulse to racing.
“I’ll buy you pancakes every day,” I add. “Unlimited pancakes and unlimited Chinese from The Great Wall. I’ll bring enough takeout for your entire family. Your dad can eat his Moo Shu Pork off my back while he kicks me repeatedly in the spleen.”
“You know better than that,” she says, her gaze still fixed on the dance floor. “If my dad got a hold of you, he’d aim for a vital organ.”
“As he should. I’m willing to beg his forgiveness, too. Just give the word.”
Lark sighs again before shifting her gaze back to me with a businesslike shake of her head. “No. No more begging necessary. You can pick me up at my parents’ house tomorrow at six.”
A smile explodes across my face. “Thank you, Lark. Thank you so much. I promise you won’t be—”
“Seven days,” she interrupts, holding up seven fingers. “One week. That’s it, and when I tell you to go next Saturday, you go, Mason, and that’s the end of this.”
“Unless you ask me to stick around,” I add, knowing she wouldn’t have said yes if there weren’t at least the ghost of chance she’s open to being us again.
Us.
God, it sounds so good it makes my bones itch with hope.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Lark says, firmly. “I told you, Mason, I’m not the same person, and from the sound of it, neither are you.”
And then she turns and walks away.
But that’s okay. I’ll see her tomorrow night.
Because I’m always going to bet on her.
Always.
Chapter 4
Lark
Date One
“This is crazy. You should be committed.” Aria wrangles another bite of smashed carrots into her baby’s mouth, tossing her encouraging words over her shoulder from the kitchen, while I marvel at her technique.
Feeding Felicity is a skill only her mama and grandmama have mastered.
When I try to feed my eight-month-old niece, I inevitably end up with more baby food on my shirt than Felicity does in her stomach, and the floor around her high chair looks like a vegetable garden has been brutally murdered.
“It’s not crazy, it’s romantic!” Melody twirls through the living room, her pink chiffon dress flaring around her, making the baby laugh.