“What am I craving?” Fuck. She’s going to do me in. “Pizza, burgers, tacos, or there’s a little Italian place in the far corner of the square? I think they close just over an hour from now, so we need to get going.”

“I love Moretti’s. It’s always a treat.”

“Moretti’s it is, then.”

She lives close enough to downtown to get to the restaurant within five minutes, even with the two stoplights. Even though it’s not that late, Moretti’s closes earlier on Sunday nights. When we walk in, Lark asked the hostess, “Is it too late for dinner? We don’t want to keep you.”

Most people I know don’t give a damn about other people’s schedules or lives that might be affected. I think that’s why Lark stands out so much . . . Or should I say even more at this moment?

I may have only just met her yesterday, but I can tell she doesn’t have a pretentious bone in her body. I add that to the list of things I find so attractive about her. It’s a list that’s getting longer with every hour we spend together.

The hostess smiles, tapping Lark on the arm, and says, “You know you’re always welcome here, Lark.” Her eyes shift to me and then back to her, giving her a little wink. “I have the perfect booth for you right back here. Follow me.”

They chat as if they’ve known each other forever, asking about each other’s families and how their classes are going this semester.

The restaurant isn’t big, but it’s quaint, and the food is good. As we pass through the dining room, I can’t help but notice it’s quieter with only a few tables occupied. The Italian music can barely be heard, low enough to allow for private conversations.

We slip into the booth near the window and open our menus. I’m scanning the specials that are clipped inside when I feel Lark’s gaze on me. I look up to see her attention shift down, but I know I just busted her. “What sounds good tonight?” I ask.

“I’m thinking about the carbonara. It’s my favorite.” She sets the menu as if she’s more than thinking about it. She’s decided. “You?”

“Lasagna. It’s been a while since I’ve had it, and it’s not something I’ll ever make.”

“Do you cook?”

I lean forward as if I’m revealing some great secret. She does the same. I reply, “Not at all.”

Surprise doesn’t contort her expression, but it does bend her brow. “You don’t cook, not eggs or anything? Ever?” Her voice starts pitching even through the whispering exchange.

“No. Never. I should, though.”

“I don’t under—”

“Ready to order?” the server asks, a kid I might recognize from campus, but I’m not sure. Though his blond spikes tend to stand out in this small town. He sets down two glasses of water, and then pulls a pen and pad from his apron. “We can start with drinks. Wine, soda, tea?”