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She cast me a smile that warmed me more than the tea.
Between his tousled black hair, smile-rounded cheeks, and strong frame wrapped in a cuddly sweater, Callum looked downright sexy. A kaleidoscope of greens reflected in his eyes, which were luminous when he allowed himself joy. Looking into them made me dizzier than the cliff’s height.
“Pfft. I just did the math. Besides, this”—Lark gestured to my entire form—“screams crustacean. I had you pegged as a water sign from the first time we met.” “I don’t believe in that. And refrain from suggesting you’ve pegged me, please.”
The place where her warm mouth had clamped around my forearm still prickled with goose bumps. I didn’t dare touch it.
Somehow, caught up in the unexpected rush of playful contact, I’d forgotten my transformation into a puffin. Surreal. Every moment with Lark had that quality.
Lark was beautiful. And not only objectively, based on facial geometry or social consensus. Beautiful to me. Utterly captivating. Shite.
Laughter never came as naturally as when I spent time with Lark.
All I could think about was tugging her down onto the bed, tumbling over the heap of clothing, and kissing her dizzy.
Aidan, the tenor with muscular arms covered in Celtic knotwork ink, immediately noticed Lark. To be fair, a man would have to be dead a decade not to notice her.
“Mo chuisle? It means ‘my pulse.’ I never quite understood it before, what it meant to have another person be the d-driving force behind the pump of your blood, but it’s true. Lark, your smile saved me like an emergency transfusion. Your laugh is the song my every blood cell dances to. Your touch revived me from darkness. You are my pulse. You make me feel alive even when I’m surrounded by death.”
As her eyes filled with what I hoped were happy tears, she laughed. Even in a city brimming with music, her laugh was my favorite sound. Ever.
