Before I have more time to second-guess myself, Lark’s arms cover mine, taking my hands and holding them to her chest. Giving her the security of my arms is an extension of how I feel about her. It’s us, bearing our souls for each other. Though the words don’t come, the feeling is still between us.

I kiss her once more before she turns in my arms, leaning against the counter. Caging her in, I lean down and get the pleasure of her lips again. But gentle pressure has our mouths separating. Lark wraps her arms around my neck, and asks, “Who is Lucas Westcott?”

Hearing his name come from her mouth hits like a ton of bricks. Unable to answer what to her is a simple question, I move away, my back hitting the fridge. I run my hand through my hair, wondering if it’s time for me to go home.

“Harbor?” My eyes are on her as she approaches like she’s sneaking up on a wild cat. Caressing my face, she rubs the space between my brows and then my temples, the skin at the corners of my eyes, and then my frown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Taking her hands in mine, I lower them between us. “It just didn’t . . . I need—”

“What do you need?”

“A warning next time. I understand the interest, but you can’t trade my pain for yours. They’re two different things.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, freeing herself and moving back against the opposite counter. “I could have asked Amanda who he was. She knew him.”

“Then ask her.” I leave the small kitchen, the space too confining for a confrontation.

“I’m asking you.”

I stop a few feet away and look over my shoulder, our eyes meeting. “I heard you, but there’s no fucking way I’m having this conversation, not tonight, and if I have my way, not ever.” I turn the bolt to unlock the door.

“Why are you leaving?” Lark runs to block me by pressing her back to the door.

My hand is on the doorknob, ready to help me escape. She only asked about him, nothing more, but I stand there, looking at her as if she’s changed. She hasn’t. I have, which isn’t fair to her. “You were sharing your hurt with me.” I touch her cheek, rubbing the pad of my thumb over her soft skin. “And it means a lot that you trusted me with that part of yourself. But it doesn’t mean I’m ready to do the same.”

“Harbor,” she says, her tone dripping in sympathy. My hands have lowered, but I don’t move away from her because I’ve done her dirty by making her grovel for me. “I’m—”

“It’s okay. I’m just telling you how it is with me. Lucas Westcott isn’t a story I’ll be sharing.”

“You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want. I won’t ask again. Just please stay.”