Lark put down her black-bean-and-avocado wrap. She was hardly tasting it, anyway. “Yes, of course. I’m just not sure I know how to think that big.”
“It’s a new market for me, but we can learn it together.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
Trip sipped his iced tea. “On the one hand, it’s because you have an amazing idea that I think is about to go big, and I can’t let the opportunity go by.”
“And on the other?” she asked, resisting the urge to reach across the table for his hand.
“Because you’re fucking awesome, and I want to spend more time with you,” he said hesitantly. “I’m really falling for you.”
She didn’t trust herself to say anything back, because she was falling for him, too.
They spent the rest of the afternoon visiting both small, independent game shops and large retailers, examining which games were sold, who manufactured them, and how they were displayed. In a smaller shop in Santa Monica, Trip interviewed the owner with an easy familiarity and a way of persistently homing in on the right questions to ask. Similar efforts went unrewarded at the big-box stores until they actually located a floor manager with some insight about what happened to unsold products and how games were ordered and stocked.
Trip took dozens of pictures on his phone and used speech-to-text to take copious notes after every encounter. When they called it a day five hours later, Lark was energized by the possibilities.
“I spent two years working on my game to make it perfect, but I never researched retail,” she told him as they drove back to her place.
He shrugged. “You’ve been developing the product, so your focus has been on that. Now that you’re a business owner, it makes sense for you to learn this stuff. It’s new to me, too. We’ll learn more from going out into the field and talking to people than we ever can behind a desk.”
Hungry again, they headed back to Lark’s place, planning to order in. Callie was out for the evening at a Spanish class, so they’d have the place to themselves for a while. Trip hadn’t slept over yet because the privacy and luxury of his hotel rooms had been far more appealing to her than having him at her tiny apartment. But if this thing between us is real, Lark thought, then it shouldn’t always be on his terms. Maybe tonight was the night.
When they pulled up in front, however, her mood changed instantly.
“Oh no,” she said.
“What?” asked Trip, eyes on the rearview mirror as he carefully backed his rental—an Aston Martin this time, because it made him “feel like James Bond”—into an empty spot.
Dylan was sitting on the front step next to a vase of flowers and a burning Mexican love candle. Even worse, he was tuning his guitar. Clearly inspired by one of the John Hughes movies he could quote chapter and verse, he was planning some kind of grand gesture to win her back. A flicker of admiration—she hadn’t thought he had it in him—was quickly snuffed out by horror and embarrassment. In baggy cargo shorts and a logo T-shirt, with his mop of hair in need of professional attention, Dylan looked like a ghost from college past.
“It’s Dylan, my old boyfriend,” she said, turning to watch Trip’s reaction.
And what would it be? Judgment of her, derision at Dylan?
Putting the car in park and turning off the engine, Trip finally looked over. His only visible reaction was a rueful smile. “Well, that’s awkward,” he said.
Dylan had no idea he was being observed, having merely glanced at the luxury car and instantly determined it was not Lark’s ride.
Lark’s stomach fluttered with indecision. She had no idea what to do. Thankfully, Trip decided for her.
“I guess I should meet him sometime,” he said, opening his door and climbing out.
Dylan’s expression at seeing Lark cross the lawn with Trip was one of complete bewilderment. His hands froze on the guitar. Clearly, he hadn’t planned for this scenario.
“Who’s this?” he asked Lark abruptly as they drew near.
“Trip Mitchell,” said Trip, offering a hand to shake. “You must be Dylan.”
Dylan stared at Trip’s hand until Trip finally let it drop. Then he stood up abruptly, hitting the candle with his guitar and making it wobble, almost knocking it over.
“Why are you here?” asked Lark, painfully struck by the difference between the two men. Trip wasn’t quite old enough to be Dylan’s father, but he was definitely a man to Dylan’s boy.
“Who is this?” repeated Dylan.
Trip had maintained his cool and still hadn’t offered a single clue as to his true thoughts. Instead, with a glance at Dylan and a warm, direct look into her eyes, Trip took a step back.
“I think I’d better leave you two alone,” he said. “Lark, will you be all right?”
She nodded, unspeakably grateful for the way he was handling it. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good to meet you, Dylan,” he said, moving backward across the lawn. “I’ll call you later, Lark.”
Lark and Dylan regarded each other as the car door slammed, the engine came to life, and Trip rolled slowly away down the block. Her mind strayed involuntarily to what Trip had said at dinner was his greatest fear: not finding his soul mate. Missing out on true love. She had told Dylan she loved him without ever fully feeling it. She’d said it out of a sense that it was the expected thing. Her feelings for Trip were already so big they were scary. Having witnessed her parents’ lifelong love affair had given her the belief that love at first sight was a distinct possibility—but it had never occurred to her it might happen so soon. Was she ready? The prospect was both thrilling and terrifying.
Dylan searched her eyes hopefully as he raised his guitar. “I
