Page 10 of Same Time Next Year

She won’t. All I can see is the center part of her blonde hair.

My heart twists like a doorknob.

Start talking. Fast.

“Listen, I’ve known for three months that you’re not a relationship person. I don’t know why. I’m not aware of the cause, but it’s obviously a sore spot, and I prodded it anyway.” God, I have to fist my hands to keep from cupping her fragile jaw. “I apologize.”

After a beat, she gives a stiff nod, but she still won’t let me see her eyes. “Could we just talk about, like, astrological signs and where we went to high school?” She’s twisting the notebook in her hands, and I gently take it from her before she rips it in half. I don’t want that to happen after she put so much work into something that will ultimately benefit me. “I doubt the green card interviewer is going to ask about our outlook on marriage.”

“No, probably not,” I say.

I lower myself back into my seat, releasing a breath when she does the same. “I’m a Libra.”

Her throat works with a swallow, and she finally, finally looks at me again, a couple of shadows lingering in her eyes. What happened to this girl? I want to know. I want to know the root of what is hurting her so I can rip it clean out of the ground. “Aquarius,” she murmurs. “We’re both air signs.”

Does that mean we’re compatible? I want to ask, but I’m not that stupid.

Plus, I already know we are.

“I went to McNally High School. Played hockey and wrestled. My dad was the woodshop teacher, and he coached the wrestling team too.”

“You had one of those families that was a household name in your town, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “You?”

She nods. “For different reasons, though.” Instead of explaining that, she changes the subject quickly. “Favorite food?”

“Broccoli cheddar soup.”

“Oh my ... God. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you’d say steak or poutine.”

“Poutine? You stereotyping me?”

She winces but doesn’t take it back.

“Fine. Poutine is a very close second,” I say, making her laugh.

A lush garden springs to life inside me at the sound. It’s the most beautiful noise I’ve ever heard, and I want to tell her that Lark is the perfect middle name for someone with a laugh so perfect, but I can’t. So I lock it down tight and order myself to respect her wishes.

“What’s your favorite food?” I ask her.

“Breakfast.”

My lips jump. “That’s not necessarily a food.”

“I love all of it equally.”

She tilts her head back, blissfully lost in her thoughts, and I can’t help myself: I use the moment to look at her tits.Fuck.The way I want to suck them. Just ride my tongue all over those nipples and draw hard on them when she least expects it. I’d get two fingers inside her pussy and keep them tucked in extra deep, too, so I could feel her getting wetter right at the source. I haven’t been with a lot of women, not compared to some of the guys on the team, but the times Ihavespent being intimate with another person? I’ve paid close attention. Enough to know exactly how to satisfy Britta.Just give me one motherfucking shot.

“Eggs, pancakes, waffles,” she says. “And syrup on everything.”

Pay. Attention.“You even put syrup on your eggs?”

“Don’t yuck my yum.”

“I wasn’t yucking.” I pretend to write something in her notebook, and she laughs again, turning me inside out. “I was taking notes.”

“Ahhh. Underline and highlight that.”

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