“I’d like that.”

“Good, then it’s settled. I’ll send Harbor dates.” Opening her arms, she and Lark embrace. Sometimes I worry that life is too good, that the bad has a place in my happiness. This is one of those times. Other than my siblings, everyone I care about and everyone who loves me is here in this room. And now they’re always tied together as well.

Everyone wraps up their conversations and head for the door, except my mom and me. I hug her, and say, “It was a good night.”

She replies, “It was a good night. And Lark is so lovely. I’m happy for you, Harbor.”

When I look over my shoulder at Lark, our gazes catch, and she smiles. It’s not big or proud or even shy. It’s delicate as if she’s only smiling for me. “She really is. I’m a lucky guy.”

“You are.” My mom pats my cheek. “Take care of yourself, son. Love you.”

“I love you, Mom.”

My dad’s arm comes around her back, and they move to the door. Mom stops, and says, “Oh, and the Brussels sprouts were delicious.” Polar opposite of John.

I burst out laughing, knowing he wasn’t happy with the side dish. “It’s my mom’s recipe.” She smiles, but I hear John grumble about the sprouts.

Lark pats his back. “I’m proud of you for eating your vegetables, Dad. And you survived. Double win.” Then she cracks up.

I’ve already mentally noted: Don’t make Brussels sprouts again.

After we get my mom and dad on the road, we say goodbye to John and get in the car. That Lark’s so sexy in the driver’s seat is the only consolation prize for being a passenger in my own vehicle.

Snug in the driver’s seat of my car, she rests back with the engine running and rolls her gaze to me. “Let’s go home.” She doesn’t realize that it makes my heart clench and that all I hear is “let’s go, home,” as if, to her, the word home itself is my name.

These days, I’ve found my pride and joy might be more invested in the woman behind the wheel rather than the vehicle.

“I had a good time.” She looks my way, but her gaze quickly returns to the road ahead. Silent questions darken her eyes as she pulls away from the curb. Her fingers tightening around the wheel whiten her knuckles, and her body somehow looks even smaller as if she’s letting the voices inside her head win. “The Bensimones are a powerful family.” Glancing at me, she asks, “Do I need to worry about repercussions aimed at my father or his shop?”

“I think they’re safe.”

“What about me?” Her voice is quiet, the sound of the road under the tires giving her solid competition.

I don’t want to worry her since nothing may come of it, but there’s an inkling of fear clawing toward the surface of my personal concern for her safety. I don’t think they’d hurt her physically, but I’m not sure about emotional revenge. They tried to do me in. Reaching over, I hold her hand. “We’re honest with each other, Lark.” Not a question. Just stating facts.