Marina may be smiling, but she turns back to me and sighs. “My brother’s right. I’ll get out of your way, Lark. Thanks for the food.” Before she disappears into the backyard where the party is set up, she starts laughing. “Loch? Are you coming?”

He passes by, but says, “Thanks for being here.”

“Thanks.” I’m not sure why I say that when I should be reminding him I’m paid to be here. But he’s not dumb. Anyway, I appreciate the kindness. This family seems nice, especially compared to how I’m treated at some events, not being acknowledged at all.

I get back to work, focusing on food preparation. With less than an hour left before the party starts, we must get the food set up on the table outside. I finish loading the filled pans onto the rolling rack and push it toward the back door. But the cart catches on the floor. I rattle it to free it from the obstacle, but it doesn’t move.

“Here, let me help you.” I hear someone say from the other side. Two hands tug the rack on the other side, and me along with it.

Stupidly, I try to help but hinder the progression instead. “It’s jammed. Hold on to it.”

“Ready,” the male voice replies.

I try to steal a peek over a tray but all I see is his neck. It’s a nice neck. Pinning my shoulder against the rack, I shove. It hits him like it ran into a brick wall and jolts back, catching my chin with the edge of the metal frame. “Ouch!”

“Are you okay?” I hear the voice ask from the other side.

Gliding the tips of my fingers across my chin, I reply, “Not sure.”

“You’re bleeding.”

I tilt my head to spy who it is over a pan of sliced vegetables only to find the warmth of caramel-brown eyes greeting me. I recognize them instantly.

And him.

“Harbor.”

3

Lark

Whether inside the gas station, outside in the sunshine, or now in the flattering filtered light of late afternoon, his shine can’t be dulled. Even the fluorescent lighting of the convenience store couldn’t change my mind.

Shifting the rack to the side, he comes between the door and the metal and around, bringing him face-to-face with me. Smirking, he replies, “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, especially not bleeding in my kitchen.”

The slight wave that weaves through his brown hair probably gives him hell on bad hair days, but I doubt someone so blessed in the looks department has much to worry about. He’s dressed differently, swapping a black button-up for the gray T-shirt he was wearing earlier, and black pants for the jeans. Hard all over with an athletic build, his shoulders are broad, the shirt draped around his body like it’s a privilege, hugging him in all the right spots—biceps, forearms where the sleeves are rolled up.

The man is gorgeous.

He looks every bit of what makes me weak in the knees in the finely tailored clothes that fit him in all the right places from his arms to his chest and backside. Dressed in black forewarns of a naughtier side while sincerity outlines the warmth of his eyes. He’s a sinner and a saint battling it out inside an Adonis body.