Page 63 of Look on the Bright Side

His grin widened. “I like you, Dr.Smith,” he said. “You’re okay. Anyone who can handle a dead pigeon is pretty damn awesome.”

Oh, shit. She liked him. She liked him. The knowledge hit her hard enough that she stumbled, and Dante grabbed her arm. Then came that warning flash again. There was something…off. Something bleak. A faint alarm that wouldn’t stop ringing. She pulled her arm free. “Thanks.”

“You good?”

“Just fine.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re dating our brother,” Izzy said. “Unless it’s for his money, in which case we get it and promise not to tell. But for our sake, I’m glad, right, Dante? Oh, I want a turkey leg. Noni’s looked so good. You guys want one?”

“I’m off poultry for a while,” Dante said. “For obvious reasons.” He grinned at Lark. “Izzy here is always hungry. I’m surprised she didn’t finish off the pigeon. You want something, Lark?”

He was funny. Kind. Brave. A devoted brother. Wicked handsome. Had she mentioned that? Crap.

Developing a crush was not part of the plan.

“What?” she said, abruptly aware that she hadn’t answered. “No, thanks, sorry. I’m actually gonna head for Lorenzo’s and get ready, maybe take a nap,” she said. “I’ll see you guys tonight, though. Have fun!”

Once in the car, Lark took a few deep breaths. Her mind was both in hyperdrive and blurry at the same time.

Never once since the age of five had Lark ever felt so much as a tremor for anyone other than Justin. Why would she? She’d had love. She’d had the One. She’d felt all the purring, the delicious hot and liquid feelings of lust, all in the safe embrace of love and friendship, laughter and fun. One and done, she and Justin liked to say. One and done.

In the past seven years, aside from pure appreciation of, say, Michael B. Jordan or Miles Teller, she had never felt any kind of romantic or lustful feelings for anyone.

Until now.

Awkward for several reasons. One, she was allegedly dating his brother. Two, he probably had women lined up from Boston to California to choose from. Good-looking firefighter with nice family? Maybe he was already in a serious relationship. She hoped he was. She hoped he’d bring a date tonight, a lovely, smart, beautiful woman. That would kill any little seed of interest poking through the barren soil of the past seven years. Please let him be seeing someone wonderful and funny and nice. Or let him be a man-whore, Tindering his way through the greater Boston area. She’d lose respect that way. Wouldn’t want to kiss a man-whore. Not that she wanted to kiss Dante Santini. Not exactly. Not yet.

No, not ever. The third reason was that flash of…darkness or warning or whatever that was. Something in her was scared of something in Dante.

And four, Justin. No one would ever measure up, obviously. You couldn’t replace a perfect love story. Besides, Lark wasn’t even sure how to date. She’d never kissed anyone but Justin. Never held hands with someone other than him. Ever. Even if she wanted to be in a relationship—and she didn’t, she was a medical resident, for heaven’s sake—she had no idea how things worked these days. It made her feel old and out of touch just thinking about it.

But the image of Dante sparkling down at her, laughing…

“Shit,” she whispered. Not convenient.

Well, she’d just have to chill, wouldn’t she? She had a job to do. A role to play. There was tonight’s party, possibly another family gathering, then the wedding weekend itself and its associated events—rehearsal dinner, day-after brunch, whatever else. After that, she’d be done with the Santini family.

The thought gave her a pang. She really liked the Santini family.

With a sigh, she started her car, pulled up a podcast on oncology treatment and headed to Boston.

She found a miraculously available parking spot two blocks away from Lorenzo’s apartment, got out of her battered little Honda, lugged her dress bag and suitcase to 35 Beacon Street. She pushed the buzzer next to a nameplate that read Santini, and a minute later, Dr.Satan appeared.

He really was gorgeous, despite his neutral expression at seeing her. He looked like a Scandinavian model—the blue eyes, the fierce cheekbones—too cool and sophisticated for a mere American to comprehend.

“Hi,” she chirped, abruptly uncomfortable. “How are you?”

“Come in.”

“Nice to see you.”

“You too.” That was a lie, she was sure. But he took her suitcase and led the way through the foyer and opened the door for her. The apartment was 1A. Of course it was.

“Wow,” Lark said as she stood in the foyer. “This is…wow, Lorenzo.”

“Thanks.”

She walked into the living room and laid her dress bag across the back of a chair. The place was tasteful, posh and elegant. White furniture, Persian rugs, dark wood trim, a brick fireplace. The art on the walls was modern and mostly black on white. She should take pictures and send them to her mom for an assessment. Bet they cost a fortune. His bookcases were filled with medical tomes and hefty biographies (many about dictators, she noted with a grin, but one of Gandhi, too). Lots of stuff that had no purpose but looked pretty…a tray holding decorative rope balls. A glass orb. A twisted bronze sculpture. Some shell-like thing that wasn’t actually a shell. (Faux shells? In coastal Massachusetts?)

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