She remembered her last breakfast with Dylan, the day she’d finally told him to move out. He’d been stringing her along for months as their relationship deteriorated, always insisting he was just about to land a job or sell his screenplay, until she began to suspect he hadn’t been trying at all and had simply been hoping she would have a change of heart. At their usual Saturday-morning spot, he ordered french toast smothered in syrup with a side of sausage patties—the same thing he’d had every single time for two and a half years—and she suddenly realized he would never change. She wanted a larger world, and he was content on her couch.
Despite Callie’s insistence that Lark pursue what she called “rebound sex,” last night and this morning represented her first intimacy since Dylan. It was both a huge relief and a dramatic improvement.
“You said last night you’d tell me in the morning what you do for a living,” she said, after washing down a bite of toast with orange juice.
“Can we just say I work with money?” he asked, sipping coffee.
She shook her head. “Not good enough. You could be an accountant or a bank robber, for all I know.”
He chuckled. “Lots of people who work in the financial field are bank robbers, even if they don’t wear masks. Fortunately, I get to give people money more often than I take it away.”
“How does that work?” Lark asked.
“I made a little bit of money running a hedge fund, but I didn’t love the work. Now I’m a venture capitalist.”
Lark felt her stomach drop a little. The whole time she’d been blathering on about her big idea, she’d been talking to someone who knew the ins and outs of business better than she ever would. It was like being on a hidden-camera version of Shark Tank. He’d probably dismissed her as someone who had no idea what she was doing.
“Although I prefer the term angel investor,” he added. “It makes me sound a lot nicer.”
She liked the way he reached out and absentmindedly touched her hair as he said it, as if he wasn’t really thinking about what his fingers were doing.
“And who are you investing in here in Buffalo?” she asked.
“A tech start-up that has a real chance of crashing within eighteen months.”
“So you’re passing?”
“My plan was to hear the rest of what they have to say before I fly back this afternoon.”
“Where to?”
“Chicago. You?”
“LA.”
“Lovely Lark from LA. One of these days, we’ll need to get on a last-name basis. What time are you pitching?”
“One thirty. I have a five-thirty flight.”
“Plenty of time.”
“For what?”
He lifted the tray, their plates half-empty but both of them obviously finished, and carried it over to the desk. “To see the sights.”
“Of Buffalo?”
“I hope you like hot wings.” He unlocked his phone and began typing with his thumbs.
“I’m vegetarian—well, pescatarian.”
He glanced up and grinned. “Of course you are.”
“So you have a meeting this morning?” she asked, cringing at the way it reminded her of Dylan, who would ask misleading questions instead of just coming out and saying, I wish you could stay. By the end, she was responding not to his words but what she assumed he meant, which to a stranger would have sounded like a mash-up of two unrelated conversations. Which wasn’t totally inaccurate.
Trip came over and kissed her firmly on the lips, looking into her eyes the whole time.
“I just canceled. I told them there’s an emergency and I have to leave right away.”
“But there isn’t?”
“The real emergency is my need for a shower,” he said, kissing her again.
Opening the nightstand drawer, he put his phone inside and closed it before heading to the bathroom, dropping his robe on the way.
Meticulous, she thought distractedly, half hoping to see some blue-ink tattoo on his back, something corny like a lizard or a Woody Woodpecker but a sign he’d had a wild side in college. His skin, however, was unadorned. The good news was, despite some weathering that proved he was indeed older than her, his skin was taut, his midsection was pretty flat, and his butt wasn’t half-bad.
Lark waited until he had the shower going and steam was wisping over the curtain before she dropped her own robe and went to join him.
“So where are we going?” she asked as Trip put the car in gear. They had both checked out of the hotel, and her bag was nestled next to his in the trunk of his rental car. He had been coy about their destination, asking only if she was up for an adventure. She was.
“Road trip.”
“What about your flight?”
“It’s a really short road trip. But I rebooked on the three o’clock.”
“And where are we going?”
“You’ll see. Want to put some music on?”
The radio stations were all awful, and by the time she got her phone synced with the car and had selected some music she thought Trip could handle, she had figured out their destination, because the signs for Niagara Falls were hard to miss. Most of the hotels on Niagara Falls Boulevard were the usual chains clumped at every interstate exit ramp, but there were still a couple of down-market budget motels advertising honeymoon suites.
“Don’t people wait until after they get married to come here?” she asked sarcastically.
“It’s either this or hot wings, Lark. Buffalo’s attractions are many, but they aren’t endless.”
They parked, bought tickets, and drank bad coffee while they waited for the next departure of the Maid of the Mist. Trip apologized and stepped away for a few minutes to make a work-related phone call and send a few quick emails. Lark stared out at the river. It was chilly and gray, with a slight drizzle, and it looked as though the boat was going to be practically empty.
When he came back and suggested they wait at a nearby café table, Lark wasn’t sure how they should sit. Across from or next to each other? Should they hold hands? She would have been happy however but didn’t want to push things. Trip solved the problem by sitting next to her, comfortably nearby but not right on top of her.
“Last night, when you saw me looking at you, what did you think?” she asked.
“I thought I probably reminded you of someone you knew,” he said lightly.
“You don’t remind me of anyone I’ve ever met,” she told him, half quoting his line from earlier that morning.
“Glad to hear it.”
“You’re also lying.”
He turned and looked at her, cocking an eyebrow. “I like to think I make a unique impression.”
“I think you know exactly what effect you have on people.”
“You give me too much credit,” he said, smiling.
She kissed him. “But I like that you’re humble.”
Finally, it was time to board the boat. They walked up the short gangplank, accepted bright-blue ponchos from a bored-looking steward, and made their way to the front, where they’d been told they’d have the best vantage point.
They made small talk, commenting on the scenery and the other tourists as the boat moved away from the dock.