He still hadn’t handed over the bouquet. Cradling the vase in the crook of his left arm, he yanked a handful of flowers out of the vase and gave them to Callie, their stems dripping all over the coffee table.
“Well, these are for you, Callie,” he said before turning and giving the rest of the still-lovely arrangement to Lark. “And this is for you.”
Now that he wasn’t obscured by a floral display, she was relieved to discover she found him just as handsome as before, if not more so. He was dressed casually but neatly in chinos and a blue patterned shirt—the fact that the shirt was tucked in and his pants were belted the only things that hinted he was a Midwesterner.
“It’s good to see you, Lark,” he said.
“Good to see you, too,” she said, feeling like her smile might rip her face wide open.
As they stood there awkwardly, Callie looked like she was enjoying their discomfort a little too much.
“How long are you in town for, Trip?” she asked, something Lark wanted to know, too.
“Just two nights, I’m afraid. Meetings all day tomorrow, flying out Thursday morning.”
“Lark said you’re a venture capitalist?” she probed.
Trip laughed and held up his hands: guilty. “It’s not as entertaining as they make it out to be on TV.”
Lark put the flowers on the breakfast bar as Callie continued to question the new man in her life.
“What kinds of things do you invest in?”
“I typically find my opportunities in health care, but I like to keep my portfolio diversified. I’ve been known to dabble in real estate development and even entertainment if the project is right.”
He sounded almost sheepish, as if reluctant to seem like he was bragging. In contrast to Dylan, who made his dreams of working in film and TV sound precious and unique.
“Where are you staying?” Callie asked.
“Four Seasons,” said Trip.
Callie nodded, satisfied. “Just in case I need to know where to find her in the morning.”
“Callie!” blurted Lark, horrified.
But Callie just opened her palms, a picture of innocence.
Trip laughed. “And on that note . . . shall we go?”
“I am hungry,” said Lark, shaking her head but wondering whether Callie was right. Bringing an overnight bag sent the wrong message, so instead she excused herself, found a rarely used purse, and put a toothbrush and a clean pair of panties inside. If she was going to do the so-called walk of shame, at least she’d do it in a fresh pair of underwear.
As she snapped the purse closed, her mind strayed to later in the evening, when she hoped Trip would be slipping off the panties she was currently wearing.
Moments later they were rolling down the block in a convertible BMW.
“Living the dream, huh?” she teased him.
“Renting the cliché,” he confirmed. “But why not? There’s frost on the ground back in Chicago.”
Lark liked good food but could rarely afford it, and she certainly had never set foot in Soyokaze, regarded by many as LA’s best sushi omakase restaurant. She had heard of it, as status-conscious Angelenos were always careful to name-drop, and she remembered one college classmate telling her I sat next to Bradley Cooper at Soyokaze last night with studied casualness. Lark was determined to savor the experience and took in the many small luxuries with pleasure, from the team of hostesses who greeted them with warm formality to the garden-like restroom where she went to check her lipstick and send a hurried text to Callie.
I think dinner for two here is going to be one month’s rent!
Returning to the dining room, she noted that it was almost spartan in its simplicity: eight diners sat at an L-shaped counter, where the shaven-headed chef, his gestures deft and economical, was aided by two assistants. Trip had somehow gotten them seats on the short side of the L, making a very public situation feel almost private. Lark was surprised to see several of the remaining half dozen diners tapping and swiping on their phones, as if paying four figures for a meal was merely routine.
Trip looked comfortable but far from blasé.
“Sake?” he asked as she settled into her seat. A chilled bottle was waiting next to two small cups.
“Sure,” she told him.
“We’re celebrating,” he said, pouring hers and then his own.
“We are?” she asked as they clinked and drank. The sake was like nothing she’d ever had before. Intriguing.
“We most definitely are.” Then, before she could press him on the details, he said, “I love how you had Callie check me out.”
“That was embarrassing, but I assure you, it was her idea.”
“She’s obviously a good friend.”
“The best.”
Even in the bright light from the chef’s work area, Trip’s dark-brown eyes were bottomless pools, the pupils impossible to tell apart from the irises.
“And do I pass?” he asked.
“I think it’s pretty obvious you pass. That was quick thinking with the flowers.”
“I hope you aren’t upset that I destroyed the bouquet,” he said, looking genuinely concerned.
“Are you kidding?”
“I really don’t want to screw this up, Lark.”
He reached for her hand under the counter. She gave him a squeeze, surprised at how suddenly vulnerable he looked. It threw her, so instead she responded lightly.
“You don’t seem like you’re very good at screwing things up, Trip,” she said as the chef placed the first dish in front of them.
Consisting of one slice of fish wrapped around a mysterious other kind of fish, with a small mound of caviar on top, it was so simple and beautiful it made her want to laugh. It also clearly made one of the other diners want to Instagram it—a server promptly appeared at that man’s shoulder with a polite but firm “No photos.”
Trip’s was already in his mouth, and he chewed with a look of serene contentment. “You have to eat it within ten seconds,” he informed her.
“I do?”
He nodded toward the chef, who was already assembling the next one-bite course. “He says that’s how it’s meant to be tasted.”
“Clearly
