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—”

I turn around again, opening and closing the door for a third time before she’s even finished laughing. “Hi. My name’s Lachlan and I don’t know anything about chickens but I do like feathers under the right circumstances.”

Lark is still giggling, her eyes shining and bright in the ambient glow of the city lights. “Well, you sound like my kind of guy. The first dude had a chicken obsession and the next guy hated feathers. I’m batting oh for two here. But you’re welcome to share my little perch.”

I step just close enough to catch the scent of perfume on the autumn breeze, the fragrance of sweet citrus. Lark studies the drop below us and I follow her gaze even though I’ve stood out here many times before. It’s not the greatest view from here. Just a dark alley, a brick apartment building next door that feels too close on the other side of a black chasm. But somehow she makes even this seem like more than a narrow wedge of space suspended over darkness. Her keen interest in everything she observes makes me want to pay more attention, like maybe I’ve been missing something in the details.

“First time in Boston?” I ask when she lifts her focus to sweep across the buildings in the distance.

Lark smiles and shifts her golden hair over her shoulder so she can get a better look at me. “Not exactly. I grew up not too far away.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Rhode Island.”

I hum a note and nod, then take a sip of my drink. “Sloane says you’ve been friends a long time.”

“Yeah,” Lark says. Her smile wanes, but only for a moment. With a blink, she reins in the blip of emotion beneath a brighter smile. “We met at boarding school, actually. Took me a while to wear her down, but now we’re best friends.”

“That doesn’t take much imagination.”

Lark shrugs and twists her interlaced fingers. “Sloane’s not as sketchy as she seems. She might have a crusty exterior but she’s gooey in the middle.”

“I meant you,” I say, giving her a smirk as a chuckle escapes me. A crease flickers between Lark’s brows as her gaze lands on my lingering, lopsided smile. “I could see you wearing her down. Doubt she could have withstood you for long.”

Lark rolls her eyes and turns to face me, leaning her weight on the wrought iron railing. She tries to look fierce but she can’t help the smile that stretches across her lips. “And why is that, exactly? You’re going to say my sparkling personality? My happy-go-lucky charm?”

“Pretty much, yep,” I admit, and this earns me a breath of a laugh. “It’s working on me.”

“Working toward what, exactly?”

I hold her gaze. She seems so endearing and sweet that I’d expect a woman like Lark to back down the longer I stare. At least give me a blush. A nervous nibble of her full lips. An unsteady breath. But she doesn’t do any of those things. Her half-smile remains unchanged.

I lean closer. If anything, her eyes glitter with amusement.

“Maybe toward me kissing you. Or, more accurately, you asking me to.”

“How bold,” she says with a tsk, but I can tell by the bright glimmer in her eyes that she likes it. “You think I’d want that?”

I grin and look down into my glass as I swirl the liquor across the ice. The image of my hands on her skin returns, my tattooed fingers gripped tight around her flesh. I take just a moment to indulge in that fantasy before I lift my gaze to hers and shrug. “I do own an impressive collection of feathers.”

Lark laughs and I take a long sip of my drink, my eyes soldered to hers over the lip of my glass. She glances away, but her attention returns as though drawn back to me despite her best efforts to sever the energy that crackles between us. I hear the moment she gives in to it, the way she sighs. I even see it in the fog that escapes her lips and rises on the cooling breeze.

“Despite the rumors, you don’t seem like too much of an asshat,” Lark says as she unlaces her fingers to grip the railing.

“I might be a little bit. Sometimes.”

“That’s probably not a bad thing.”

“You think?”

Lark lifts a shoulder. “Sure. If you’re too nice, you might get roped into making doilies on Sundays.”

“Feckin’ Fionn,” I say, my lip curled in a derisive grin. “What I wouldn’t give to find out what Rose was about to say before he cut her off. He’s probably the treasurer of their little club. It’s definitely the kind of thing he’d find himself sucked into. He’s always been a sweet kid. Too feckin’ sweet for his own good.” Lark smiles but her brows flicker as though she’s working out a complex problem. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she replies as she shakes her head, her expression smoothing as her gaze bounds between mine. “I just … I dunno. Something about you seems familiar. It’s probably just because I’m getting to know Rowan and I see the likeness in you.”

I chuckle and nudge her elbow before I take another sip of my drink. “Now there’s an asshat. Don’t compare me to that reckless little shit.”

“Oh stop,” she chides, giving me a gentle backhanded whack on my arm. “He’s great. So perfect for Sloane. Don’t be an asshat.”

I grin, my eyes locked to her full lips. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

She snorts. “‘Ma’am.’ Please don’t.”

“Miss?”

Her nose scrunches.