Page 60 of Freeing Lark

She glanced at the couch. Then back at him. The couch was tiny. Cormac was not. He was big without seeming bulky, all broad shoulders, solid muscle, and quiet strength.

She nearly laughed. “Have you seen my couch?”

“Yeah.”

“Your shoulders are wider than the seat.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Of course you have.” Something about the way he said it made her wonder what worse actually meant. She’d seen enough glimpses of the man beneath the quiet exterior to know there were pieces of his life he didn’t talk about.

His SEAL days. His missions. The people he’d lost aside from what he’d shared about Bullet. She didn’t ask. Not yet.

“If it’ll make you feel safer,” he added.

Lark hesitated. It would. That was the problem. She shouldn’t want him there. But she did. “Okay.”

Marilyn smiled. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Lark rolled her eyes. “Aunt Marilyn.”

“What?” she asked, all feigned innocence.

“Nothing.”

Her aunt kissed her cheek and headed for the door. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you. For everything.”

The door closed behind her. Silence settled over the space. Lark glanced at Cormac. “This is awkward.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re enormous and my couch is the size of a postage stamp.”

His mouth twitched. “I’ll survive.”

She smiled. “That’s what worries me.”

He followed her upstairs to the small apartment. Most of the living space had been sacrificed to her art. Boxes of supplies occupied one corner. Canvases leaned against another wall. Tools sat on a worktable. The little couch had clearly been an afterthought.

Cormac lowered himself onto it. His knees nearly brushed the coffee table. Lark laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Lark opened her mouth in a yawn belatedly thinking to cover it with her hand. “I’m tired but too wired to sleep.”

He patted the empty cushion beside him. She sat. Their shoulders touched. Neither moved.

For a while they simply talked. Lark told him about growing up in a family where everything had to look perfect. Where the “right” accomplishments mattered more than happiness. To them, art was considered a hobby instead of something worthy of a life.

She told him how often she’d been compared to her siblings. How she’d always been the odd one. They called her the “difficult one.” The daughter who couldn't seem to fit the mold.

“I spent years thinking something was wrong with me,” she admitted. Lark gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “One of the first times they really decided I was the ‘difficult one’ was when I was sixteen. My parents had this huge dinner party with all these important people, and I was supposed to sit there, smile, and pretend I cared about whatever they were talking about. Then one of my dad’s business associates started bragging about how he’d bought a struggling artist’s work for practically nothing. He thought it was hilarious. I didn’t.” She shook her head. “So I told him exactly what I thought about taking advantage of someone who was desperate. In front of everyone.”

Cormac’s mouth twitched. “I’m guessing that went over well.”

“Oh, beautifully.” She rolled her eyes. “My parents were mortified. I got sent upstairs, and Mother followed me a few minutes later to tell me I needed to learn when to keep my opinions to myself. I tried explaining that I just thought someone should say something. She told me that was exactly what made me difficult. I was too emotional, too opinionated, too stubborn, and apparently incapable of understanding how the world worked.” Lark shrugged, though the memory still stung. “After that, whenever I didn’t do what they expected, I was being difficult again. Eventually, I started wondering if maybe they were right.” She glanced at him. “Funny thing is, the older I get, the more I think maybe being difficult wasn’t such a bad thing after all.”