11. Monty

Chapter eleven

Monty

I love sleep. Sleep is awesome. Babies have it so good, all they have to do is eat, sleep, poop, and cry whenever they want. And take toddlers. Some of them actually protest nap time! Come on, kid, don’t you realize sleep is fucking amazing?

Mom said since the day I was born, I loved to sleep. She actually worried about me as a newborn because all I wanted to do was eat and be cuddled while I slept.

All of that is to say, when it’s the one morning this week I’m allowing myself to sleep in as late as I want, and someone won’t stop knocking on my door, I’m not pleased.

Security in my building is pretty tight, which means there’s only a few people it could be. The guys on the team are on my approved entry list. Hell, Darling lives two floors below me. Lark and my parents have access, but that’s about it.

Normally, none of those people are ones I’d be grumpy toward, but I was really looking forward to that sleep in. Which is why there’s a frown on my face when I drag my feet over to the front door.

“Okay, okay. Geez. Give a guy a chance to wake up,” I grumble. But when I wrench open the door, ready to give whoever it is a hard time for waking me up, the grumpy, tired feeling fades away in an instant. Lark is standing there, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, and a nervous expression on her face I’ve never seen before.

“Hi.” Her voice is soft, just above a whisper.

“Hey,” I say, the word catching in my throat, my voice cracking like a fucking teenager going through puberty. I clear it, and try again, attempting to look cool and casual as I stand in the doorway. But given the fact that I’m still in my pajamas with Wookiees all over the pants and holes in my T-shirt, I’m guessing I fail.

“I mean, hi, Lark. How’s it going this fine morning?”

Jesus Christ. Now I sound like a dork. And seeing as she’s fighting not to smile, she thinks so, too.

I push off the door and step back. “Wanna come in?”

She nods, biting her lip, and brushes past me. Heading straight to the kitchen, I watch with some bemusement as she just makes herself at home, turning on the coffee maker and pulling down two of my Star Wars -themed mugs. The one she always uses is black and reads “This Is Not The Coffee You Are Looking For.” The other is one of my favourites and reads “May The Caffeine Be With You.” It’s not like this is the first time she’s made coffee in my apartment, but something seems off. Her hand trembles slightly when she sets the mugs down, and her movements are jerky as she goes to the fridge to pull out the vanilla flavoured creamer I keep there for her.

“Lark, what’s going on?” I ask, starting to get concerned. “Is this about the other night? Because I swear, I don’t care that you were drunk. It was no big deal helping out. You didn’t puke or anything. And I slept on the couch the whole time, promise.”

“I broke up with Baron.”

The silence that falls after she says the five words I’ve wanted to hear for years is deafening.

Then, like a total idiot, I open my big mouth. “Oh. That’s cool.”

Lark makes some weird sound, something between a hysterical laugh and a snort, immediately clapping her hand over her mouth. I reach my hand up and scrub it across my face, partly wishing I could rewind time by ten minutes or so and not make a fool out of myself in front of my female best friend.

“Let me try again,” I rasp. “How are you feeling about that?”

There, that sounds better. More appropriate of a response. But when I force myself to meet Lark’s gaze, I am very much unprepared for what happens next.

Like a tiny blond tornado, she flings herself across the kitchen, my arms opening just in time to catch her. But when I go to hold her away from my body, she presses in. My eyes widen as she fumbles her hands up to cup my cheeks, fiery determination clear in her gaze.

She pauses, her eyes searching my face.

I hear her mutter under her breath, “Fuck it.”

Then.

Holy shit.

Then, she kisses me.