“Only a stalker would know where I live.” Raising an eyebrow in challenge, he nods as if he’s won.

“Or someone who just worked at your house last night.” Maybe he is winning . . . winning me over. The more time I spend with Harbor, the more time I want to spend with him. I don’t always trust guys when we first meet, but there’s something about Harbor that makes me believe he’s being genuine with me.

Chuckling again, he rests his arms on the roof and says, “Touché.” His shoulders drop as he eases against the car. “But it is really dark out. I’m happy to give you a lift if you’d like a ride home.”

His argument holds water. It’s just a friend helping a friend. And maybe it’s a little, or a lot, of me wanting to ride inside something so luxurious. I may never get this chance again. “I’ve almost been hit a few times riding at night, so I guess it would be safer if I ride with you, but how will we fit my bike? There’s no room for it.”

He’s grinning, nothing less than gorgeously, as if it were even possible for him to sport anything less. His gaze runs the length of the car and then lands back on me. Waggling his eyebrows, he replies, “Don’t worry, we’ll make it work.”

6

Lark

I’m not sure how everything Harbor says feels like it has layers of other meanings built in, but he did make it work.

Kneeling on the sidewalk that leads to the door, he puts the last bolt back in place and then spins the wheel. “Good as new.”

“Thanks.” I spin the tire, not because I don’t believe him, but I’m not sure what to do and need the time to decide. Should I invite him in, take the free ride in the fancy car and then make a break for it inside, or hang out here in the dark with him a little longer? One and three are tempting, but my sensible side says two should win out. “Would you like to come in?” And there goes all reasoning . . .

“Sure.” He rights the bike.

“Let me put this up.” I take it by the handles and start for the side of the house where I store it behind the bushes.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he follows me through the grass. As I hide it from sight behind the shrubbery, he looks down the street and then back at me. “Should you lock it up?”

“I don’t have anywhere to lock it, and my neighbors inside the house complained when I used to keep it in the entryway.” I walk back around the house to the sidewalk. Harbor keeps up, his strides double mine. “They had a point since it’s a small entry, but now I take my chances.” I’m about to take the coffee from him when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. “Oh no, my dad.”