Chapter One
LARK
What’s in a name? I say everything.
—“How I Lied about My Name and Discovered My Truth,” a TED Talk by Jon M. Wright
Hotel bars were not Lark’s scene. Fairly or unfairly, she associated them with balding, fiftysomething bros who ordered their second drinks while halfway through their first ones, and who one-upped each other’s sports injuries while name-dropping vacation spots to prove who had the fattest wallet and the biggest penis. Their jobs would be equally uninteresting: management consultant, investment adviser, salesman.
Granted, at twenty-six, she had very little experience, so she was mostly just guessing. And yet here she was, in an honest-to-god hotel bar in the godforsaken town of Buffalo, New York, and she had to admit the place was living down to her imagination. Last updated in the early 1990s—so around the time she was born—the place held a sad handful of couples and singles, and the guy nearest her, the one twisting a heavy gold watch around his meaty wrist, looked like the third-generation owner of a regional waste-management company. A cheesy lounge trio would have provided welcome comic relief, but instead the piped-in music was soft rock from her mom’s teenage years.
She was consoling herself that she’d be on her way home to sunny LA tomorrow afternoon when he walked in.
He was tall and fit, with wavy brown hair that would look overdue for a haircut on anyone else. On him it somehow framed his face perfectly. As he made his way to the bar, Lark had the fleeting thought that he didn’t belong there—nobody truly belonged in a hotel bar in Buffalo, but he looked a cut above the rest of the customers. He was wearing jeans, a blue sport coat, a casually wrinkled white shirt, and brown leather shoes that cost more than any purse she’d ever owned. She looked away as he scanned the room, definitely not wanting him to catch her staring.
Also, the bartender, buzzed hair and gap-toothed, was in front of her, tribal tats curling up his forearms and disappearing under his rolled shirtsleeves.
“What can I get you, miss?” he asked.
“Vodka and soda with a lemon.” One quick drink and then back to her room.
He nodded seriously and turned away to pour it. Miss sounded a little too formal coming out of his mouth, but maybe he felt like he had to compensate for the tattoos by overcompensating on the professional front. Maybe he regretted the clichéd ink, among other poor life choices, and was dedicating himself to mixology. The hotel bar was his apprenticeship to growing a bushy beard and opening his own craft cocktail joint.
She gave a quiet snort, amused at her ability to invent a life story for a random stranger who probably was nothing more than he appeared to be. When she looked down the bar, the brown-haired man caught her eye and gave the briefest smile, as if amused she was amused, before looking away.
The bartender brought her drink, centered it on a napkin, and with a flourish scooped brown-and-orange snack mix into a tiny bowl before moving down the bar toward the brown-haired man, who was already in conversation with two middle-aged women. Within a minute, the four of them were laughing, and all four had drinks, even the bartender, who had apparently been purchased a shot by the brown-haired man.
Lark hated schmoozers but had a grudging respect for the skill. She simply couldn’t understand how some people made a thousand easy friendships without wondering where they’d lead or how long they’d last. Her plan for tonight, after enjoying her token drink in a token hotel bar, was to turn in early and be at her best for the pitch meeting that had brought her to Buffalo in the first place.
Except that she stayed for a second drink, watching in fascination as the brown-haired man made friends. He had an undeniable magnetism, and it was painfully obvious that both women would have slipped their room keys into his pants’ front pockets if he’d given them the slightest provocation. They were probably his age or a little bit older, and he was probably—what, forties?—but he wasn’t flirting with them. He was just . . . charming them. He didn’t seem to be making an effort to keep it going, though, and eventually, with obvious regrets, the two women paid their tabs and left. Waste Management had already gone, too, and when the bartender went out into the room to bus some tables, Lark and the brown-haired man were alone.
Seeming to feel her looking at him, he turned and caught her. As a startlingly warm blush seared her face, he smiled, nodded, and turned back to the TV.
Why isn’t he hitting on me? thought Lark, an embarrassing thought she’d tell no one ever. After all the needy drama that defined her relationship with Dylan, she definitely wasn’t looking for anything, but she knew she was attractive, knew her face and breasts and blue-streaked shoulder-length black hair had an effect, mostly because men were so bad at disguising their interest.
Something she was apparently bad at, too.
Was she interested? Or was the second vodka soda simply doing its work?
“Keep staring at me and you’re going to have to buy me a drink,” the brown-haired man finally said, his eyes still on the TV and a sly smile in his voice.
Fuck it, she thought. Hotel bar in Buffalo. Have a drink with a good-looking man.
Sliding off her stool, she pushed her drink down the bar, leaving a snail trail of condensation behind, and sat down next to him.
He turned, grinned, and offered a hand to shake. “I’m Trip.”
“Lark. I guess both our parents liked four-letter words.”
That made him laugh. He had full lips, appealingly imperfect teeth, and a few threads of silver in his thick head of hair.
“Four-letter words are an essential component of parenting.”
She wasn’t about to ask him whether he had kids.
The bartender was back, hands spread on the bar, grinning like he thought he knew something.
“I’ll have another,” she said, pushing her half-full, half-melted drink toward him because she really didn’t want to overdo it. “And whatever he’s having.”
As the bartender went away, Trip leaned in ever so slightly.
“I was wondering how long it would take you,” he said, not quite making eye contact.
“You’re pretty sure of yourself,” she told him. What was it about him that made her lean in, too?
He shrugged. “Don’t take that the wrong way. Nobody wants to spend an evening in Buffalo alone. Certainly no one should.”
“Well, why didn’t you say hi first?”
Trip studied his bottle of beer, rotating it slowly with his fingers. “Because I’m attracted to strong women. I wanted to see if you were one.”
Her loss for words coincided perfectly with the bartender’s return. Fortunately, Trip thanked him in a way that clearly disinvited him from joining the conversation, and the bartender sidled away and picked up his phone.
“What brings you to Buffalo?” he asked, angling his body so he was close but not intrusively so.
“Games,” she blurted.
“Games?” he asked with a wry smile.
“I’m a . . . board game designer. A Hunter-Cash scout spotted one of my prototypes at a toy fair and invited me to come in and pitch it to them. I have a meeting tomorrow.”
“So you’d be selling your idea to them?”
Lark sipped her drink. It was stronger than the last one, so either the bartender was pouring with a free hand or simply layering the vodka on top, hoping for a bigger tip. Which was a move she could appreciate from her waitressing days.