The Lying Season (Seasons #1) - K.A. Linde Page 0,76
inside after Lark. “Claire just called.”
Lark’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
I could see her hackles were up. “Yeah. I don’t know why she’s calling.”
“Do you need to…talk to her?”
“No, I definitely don’t. I sent her to voicemail. If it’s important, she’ll leave a message or something, I guess.”
“Oh,” she said, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of wine. She held it up, and I nodded. “Has she called or texted you before?”
“Well, when she first left, she did. But it fell off. I haven’t heard from her since before you and I started talking.”
She smiled slightly as she popped out the cork and poured us each a glass. “Well, what do you think she wants?”
“I have no idea. I don’t really want her to call me at all.”
“Yeah.” She passed me my glass and took a contemplative sip of hers.
“I mean, we do have to figure out the apartment situation. She’s coming back in three weeks, and our lease ends soon after that.”
“That makes sense,” Lark said. “What are you going to do about that?”
“Well, ideally, I’ll find my own place.”
She glanced at the ground and nervously toed her foot in a circle. Then her big green eyes met mine. “You could always stay here.”
“I already do.”
She smiled softly. “I mean…you could move in.”
“Really?”
“If you want. If you don’t think it’s too soon. You’re already here a lot, and English told me that Josh found them a place here for when he’s done filming. I think they’re going to sign on it this week even. So, she’ll be moving out. I mean, is it crazy?”
“Maybe a little,” I said, clearing the distance between us. “But I want to.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I do. I want to move in with you.”
Her only answer was to press her lips against my own and to pull me back into the bedroom. The bedroom that would be ours in a matter of weeks.
30
Lark
Something pulled me out of a deep sleep. I squinted up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell had woken me. Then I heard it—the sound of boots on hardwood and something heavy hitting the wall.
“What is happening?” I asked, reaching across the king-size bed to turn on the bedside table lamp.
Sam groaned and rolled over, closer to me. He glanced at his phone. “It’s not even seven.”
I yawned dramatically and then heard the noise again. “God, I don’t know. Do you think someone is breaking into the apartment?”
“Fuck,” he grumbled. Then he threw the covers off of himself. “I’ll go check it out. You stay here.”
He pulled on a pair of joggers and headed out into the living room. But I had no intention of staying here. If someone was breaking into my house, I wanted to make sure Sam was okay and call the cops. I threw on a nightgown and then snatched up my phone as I hurried to catch up.
“Hey!” Sam called. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment? You need to get out before I call the cops.”
“Your apartment?” a crisp, clear voice asked.
I cringed. Oh no.
I knew that voice.
I dashed into the living room. And there she was. Hope St. Vincent in an Alexander McQueen suit and a St. Vincent’s handbag. She was standing firm before Sam as if he were a bug under her shoe.
“Mom?” I gasped.
Sam whipped his head back to me. He shot me a look that said, This is your mother?
When I nodded at him, he disappeared back into the bedroom in search of a shirt.
“Larkin dear, I thought you’d be gone by now,” my mother said.
“It’s seven in the morning.”
“Yes, well, perhaps I misjudged the time. I’ve been up for an hour, and when the furniture company said that the pieces were finished and could be delivered first thing, I didn’t even balk.”
“Furniture?” I asked in confusion. It was too early for my brain to be able to catch up to this. “What furniture?”
And then I looked around, really noticing my apartment. My couch had been pushed back against the wall. That must have been the banging that woke me. And there in its place was a brand-new white sofa. A rolled-up rug had been set against one wall, and several picture frames were next to it, waiting to be hung.
“Surely I told you about the redecorating I was going to be doing,” my mother said.
“Redecorating?” I asked, coming to my senses. “You were going to redecorate my entire apartment without talking to me first?”