Lark looked over at him. "Why are you looking at me that way?"
"Your smile is beautiful,” Rocco breathed.
"It is?” she asked.
“It is,” he said.
"You've been watching me,” she whispered. He hadn't even realized that he had, but maybe she was right.
The smell of bacon drifted from the kitchen, and Rocco frowned. "I don't remember cooking."
"I did,” Lark said. Both men looked at her, and she shrugged.
"You were outside,” she said. The smoke detector screamed, and Lark winced. "Oh, shit.” She covered her face. "I might've burned it."
Rocco burst out laughing, running into the cabin. Dante followed a second later. "I was trying to do something nice.” Lark looked at the stove as though it had offended her in some way.
"You nearly burned down my father's cabin,” Rocco said, with no real anger.
"It was one pan!" Lark defended.
"There are flames,” Rocco said.
"They're little flames,” Lark insisted. Rocco walked into the kitchen and, sure enough, smoke curled from a cast-iron skillet while blackened bacon resembled charcoal. He reached over and turned off the burner. Lark stood beside him, looking thoroughly embarrassed.
"I've never cooked before,” she breathed.
He looked at her. "Seriously?"
"My father had chefs,” she said. "I wasn't exactly allowed near a stove." The humor faded because that was another thingRafael had stolen from her—the normalcy of being able to do something as simple as cooking for herself.
He opened the refrigerator. "Good news,” Rocco said.
"What is?" Lark asked.
"I know how to cook,” he said.
She smiled. "You do?"
"My dad insisted that I know how to fend for myself.” He reached for eggs. "He said everybody should know how to feed themselves." Lark quietly leaned against the counter while he worked, and after a moment, Dante joined her. Neither interrupted, and neither offered to help. Instead, they simply watched. It felt more domestic than it should have, and Rocco found himself feeling completely at ease with the two of them.
Breakfast was served around the small wooden table—three plates, three mugs, and three people who barely knew each other. But conversation came more easily than Rocco expected. Lark admitted she'd never gone camping, and Dante confessed he'd once gotten lost on a training exercise for three days. Rocco admitted he'd failed high school shop class because he'd accidentally welded his instructor's toolbox shut. Lark laughed so hard that coffee nearly came out of her nose.
"You didn’t,” she said.
"I was sixteen,” Rocco defended.
"I would've paid money to see that,” Dante said.
"So would've my dad,” Rocco said. The words slipped out before he could stop them, and Lark reached across the table, letting her fingers brush his.
"I'm sorry,” she said. He looked at their joined hands and then at Dante. Instead of jealousy, he only saw understanding in Dante’s eyes. He simply nodded, as if to say—you’re not carrying it alone anymore.
Later that morning, Lark wandered into the living room to study Isabella's journal. Rocco and Dante quietly unpacked weapons and supplies onto the dining table. "So." Rocco kept his voice low. "We should probably talk."
Dante nodded. "About her."
"About the three of us,” Rocco said. That earned him a raised eyebrow.
