“So,” I say, sitting on the couch. “Did you just happen to go to the gas station tonight or—?”

“Or did I show up hoping to see you?” He comes to sit next to me. Setting his mug on the table next to mine, Harbor then rests back and spreads his arms wide across the back of the couch. He looks me in the eyes and replies, “The truth?”

“Always.”

“I went there hoping to see you, but when I didn’t, I grabbed a bottle of water since I was there.”

“You really didn’t know I was there?” I laugh, remembering how I was bent down on the food aisle. Did destiny play a hand in our meeting?

“Not until I saw you at the register.” Not a lie is detected in his eyes. That leads me to believe that maybe it was meant to be.

Just like in the movies.

7

Harbor

Lark still embodies the bravado she had the first time we met, even if we’ve moved past the cat-and-mouse game we were playing. She owns every sway of her hips and the way she moves in her body.

For all her certainty in who she is, she doesn’t fully trust me. She’s not unwise. Quite the opposite. I like that she’s guarded. It makes the reward of being on the inside of her walls all the sweeter.

“I was going to study,” she says next to me on the couch.

Her hair tousled from being outside, her green eyes still bright as if it were still daylight outside. I search for makeup but can only find maybe darker lashes than her natural ones and a hint of pale pink on her lips that could be mistaken for when they’re nude. She doesn’t need any.

She’s just as beautiful without makeup, if not more, than when I saw her working last night and wearing it. I pivot my gaze away from her and to the mug on the table so she doesn’t find me creepy for staring at her too long. Though I could stare at her all day and still find something new that fascinates me.

I reply, “I can go if you want.”

There’s no rush to respond. She sips her coffee with delicate lips pressed to a mug that I’m sure she got from that junkyard of a car dealership just outside Beacon lines. The juxtaposition is interesting. That she doesn’t have a car gives me the feeling there might be a story behind the acquisition of the mug.

“I’m okay.” Leaning forward, she adds, “If you are.”

“I’m good. What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

I chuckle. “Yankee blue or sky?”

“Somewhere in between.” She grins, and then asks, “What’s your favorite color?”

“I don’t have one.”

She sits back again, propping her elbow against the couch and her head to her hand, and then furrows her brow. “How can you not have a favorite color? Everyone has a favorite color.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“No.” She tilts her head down, but her eyes stay on mine. “You’re definitely not, but you’re telling me there’s not one color that makes your day brighter? The yellow of a daisy or sunshine, the green of freshly mowed grass in spring, a patch of clovers, or delicious pesto pasta?” She sits up, determination anchoring her spine straight, and continues, “The red bird of the year you see or a peppermint stick? The leaves when they turn orange or a patch of pumpkins in fall? Even brown like the smoothest Belgian chocolate or the trunk of the tallest pine trees?”