Chapter Nine – Lark
The truck is quieter on the way back. I sit angled toward the window, watching the road slide past in dim streaks of light and shadow, the town easing back into darkness one storefront at a time. The reflection in the glass shows more of the inside of the truck than what’s outside of it.
Holt’s hands on the wheel. The set of his jaw. The way his gaze doesn’t move from the road, like he’s decided something and doesn’t plan to explain it unless I force him to.
“You didn’t tell me he was coming,” he says finally.
The words aren’t sharp. They’re worse. Measured. I keep my eyes on the window.
“I didn’t know he was coming.” I exhale slowly. “You want a full rundown of every person who might show up in town while I’m here?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The truck hums under us. Gravel shifts as we turn off the main road toward the farm, the tires crunching in a steady rhythm that fills the silence long enough for me to think better of the question.
“I want to know if I’m about to get blindsided,” he says.
I turn my head slightly, just enough to see the edge of his profile.
“You weren’t blindsided.”
“He knew me.”
“You’re not exactly hard to find information on in this town.”
“That’s not what that was.”
No. It wasn’t. I don’t answer. Because if I do, I have to explain something I’m not ready to unpack in the middle of a truck ride with tension sitting this close to the surface.
Holt exhales through his nose.
“That guy doesn’t look like he lets things go easy,” he says.
I let out a quiet breath that almost qualifies as a laugh.
“That’s a very diplomatic way of putting it.”
His gaze flicks toward me for half a second.
“You going to tell me what he is to you?”
The question hangs there. Simple. Direct. Impossible to answer cleanly.
“My contractor,” I say.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Then answer the question.”
I turn fully now, facing him.
“And what exactly gives you the right to ask it?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I feel the shift. Too sharp. Too defensive. Too close to something I don’t want to define.
Holt doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push back. He just nods once.
“Fair.”
And that—that feels worse. Because now I’m the one who pushed something where it didn’t need to go.
I look back out the window. The farm comes into view ahead of us, the house lit from the inside, warm against the dark.
“I used to work with him,” I say, quieter now.
Holt doesn’t look at me, but I can feel his attention shift.
“Used to,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“Now I hired him.”
“Why?”
Because I don’t trust anyone else.
Because he knows the work.
Because I know exactly what I’m getting with him, even when I don’t like it.
Because—
“It made sense,” I say.
That’s not the whole truth. It’s enough for now.
Holt doesn’t press again. But the question doesn’t go away. It sits between us for the rest of the drive.
Claire has made herself at home in Holt’s house when we pull into the drive. Of course the main house is just across the way, so it makes sense she wants to keep a close eye on her son.
She’s at the table with a book open in front of her and a cup of tea she hasn’t touched, like she’s been waiting for the sound of the door before letting herself relax.
Her gaze moves between us once. Twice. She doesn’t say anything about what she sees. Which means she sees everything.
“How was dinner?” she asks.
“Good,” I say.
“Productive,” Holt says at the same time.
Claire’s mouth curves slightly.
“Those sound like two very different experiences.”
“They weren’t,” I say quickly.
Holt doesn’t contradict me, but that doesn’t mean he agrees.
“There’s leftovers if you’re still hungry,” she says, already closing her book.
“I’m good,” I tell her.
Holt nods once. “Same.”
She studies us one more time, then pushes back from the table.
“I’m turning in,” she says. “Just wanted to check on the progress today.”
With the gleam in her eye, I’m suspicious that she’s referring to something other than the Carrington House. Claire hums like she’s filing that away for later and heads down the hall toward the front door.
I stand near the kitchen counter, not moving farther into the space, not retreating either.
Holt sets his keys down by the door, shrugs out of his jacket, and runs a hand through his hair in a motion that looks more tired than anything else.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
“You didn’t like him,” I say.
It’s not a question.
“No.”
“That was fast.”
“I don’t need long.”
I cross my arms.
“That seems fair.”
“It is.”
I shake my head once.
“You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough.”
“And what exactly is enough?”
Holt steps closer. Not into my space, but enough that the air shifts.
“He walked into a room and looked at you like you were something he’d already decided he owned,” he says.
The words hit harder than I expect. I swallow.
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what it was,” he cuts in, quieter now. “And you shut down the second he showed up.”
I hold his gaze.
“I handled it.”
“You avoided it.”
“I managed it.”
“You deflected it.”
The back-and-forth comes easier than it should. Too easy. Like we’ve already learned how to push at each other without hesitation.
“Not everything needs to be handled the way you handle things,” I say.
“And how’s that?”
“Direct. Forceful. Like if you push hard enough, everything will fall into place, whether it’s ready to or not.”
His jaw tightens.
“Better than pretending something isn’t there and hoping it fixes itself.”
“I’m not pretending—”
“You are.”
The word lands flat. Something snaps.
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I say, my voice sharper now.
“You don’t,” he agrees.
He takes another step closer. Now he’s in my space. Now I feel it. Every inch.
“I’m asking anyway,” he adds.
The air tightens. My pulse kicks up. This—This is exactly what I didn’t want. Exactly what I knew would happen if I stayed here too long, worked too close, let this thing between us build without naming it.
I should step back. Instead I let the subtle scent of hard-earned sweat and something uniquely Holt swirl around me.
“You don’t get to decide what I talk about,” I say.
“No,” he says again. “But I get to decide what I ignore.”
My breath catches slightly.
“And you’re not ignoring this?”
“No.”
The space between us shrinks without either of us moving. Or maybe we do. I’m not entirely sure.
All I know is that suddenly—he’s close. Too close. Close enough that I can see the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls slower than mine, the way his gaze drops for half a second to my mouth before coming back up.
There it is. The line. The one we’ve been circling since yesterday. The one neither of us has crossed. Yet.
“You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be,” I say, but my voice doesn’t carry the weight it should.
His mouth shifts slightly.
“You think this is simple?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says. “Because it’s not.”
My breath catches again, and the moment stretches. Tightens. Everything in me goes still except the part that feels too aware of how close he is, how easy it would be to close the remaining distance.
Too easy.
“That’s not what this is,” I say.
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His hand lifts slightly, hovering just enough that I feel the intention before the contact. Because I still don’t have an answer that doesn’t make this more complicated.
And he knows it.
The air shifts. Every inch between us feels deliberate now. Intentional.
His hand lifts again. Slow this time. Like he’s giving me time to stop him if I want to.
I don’t. That’s the problem. His fingers brush my wrist first. Light. Barely there. Still enough to send a sharp, immediate awareness up my arm that settles somewhere deeper before I can stop it. My breath catches.
Around us everything else fades. There’s just—this. Him. Close enough now that I can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way his focus doesn’t waver even for a second.
“You’re not pulling away,” he says quietly.
I swallow.
“I should.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.”
The word barely makes it out. His thumb shifts slightly against my wrist, and somehow that’s worse. Because it’s a choice. My choice.
His hand slides higher. Not far. Just enough that I feel it differently. My pulse jumps against his fingers. His gaze drops again. And I know exactly what happens next if I don’t stop this. If I let it go one step further. Two. Three.
I want to. That’s the truth. The part I don’t say out loud.
The part I’ve been ignoring since the moment he looked at me across a kitchen like he already understood something I hadn’t admitted yet.
My free hand lifts. I don’t realize I’m doing it until my fingers curl lightly into the front of his shirt. The contact sends something sharp and electric through both of us.
His breath shifts. Mine follows.
Surprising us both, I take a step back. Fast. Like I’ve just remembered something important. Like I’ve just crossed a line I can’t uncross.
“This is a bad idea,” I say.
The words come out uneven. Not nearly as controlled as I want them to be. Holt doesn’t move. Not immediately. Then he drops his hand.
“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. Neither am I.
And that’s the problem.
The rest of it feels off, and I stay in the kitchen longer than I need to.
Clean things that don’t need cleaning. Rearrange items that were already in place.
Doing anything to keep my mind free from wandering back to the moment with Holt.
Anything to help it seem like I’m earning my keep in his house and not taking advantage.
Holt disappears down the hall at some point, the sound of the shower starting and stopping marking time in a way I don’t want to track.
By the time I finally make it back to the bedroom, the house has settled again.
Rook is already curled up on the bed, watching the door like he’s been waiting.
“I know,” I tell him softly.
I sit on the edge of the mattress staring at the floor. Then lie back slowly, the ceiling coming into view again in a way that feels different from last night. Because now I know exactly what I’m risking by staying.