Chapter Ten – Holt
I know the second I see his truck that this will be a problem.
It’s parked off to the side of the inn like it doesn’t belong there—too clean, too polished, too deliberate against the uneven gravel and weathered siding that looks like it’s been holding itself together out of sheer stubbornness.
Morning light hits the windshield at an angle that makes it flash sharp and bright, a clean contrast to everything else about this place.
Lark goes still beside me. Not enough that anyone who didn’t know her would catch it. But I do. I feel it in the way her posture shifts, in the way the air around her tightens, in the way she inhales just a little deeper before stepping out of the truck.
“That’s Nolan,” she says.
I shut off the engine and take a second before moving, my hand still resting on the wheel as I look at the inn, the truck, the stretch of space between them that feels like a line already drawn before either of us stepped out of the car.
“He got here early,” I say.
“He always does.”
There’s history in that answer.
We step out at the same time, boots hitting gravel in a rhythm that should feel normal after the last couple of days but doesn’t, not with this sitting in front of us.
The morning air is cooler than it was yesterday, carrying that damp, salt-tinged breeze off the bay, and the inn looks different in this light—less forgiving against damage we’ve already uncovered.
Lark doesn’t look at the house. She looks at the truck, then she starts walking. I follow for my own curiosity.
Nolan comes around the side of the building before we reach the halfway point on the path.
He moves like he belongs wherever he decides to stand, like he’s already assessed the situation and filed it into something manageable. His gaze lands on Lark first, steady and direct, and something crushes my ribs before I can stop it.
Then he looks at me briefly. Enough to tell me he’s already decided I’m something he needs to account for.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” Lark replies.
Her voice is calm.
Controlled.
Nothing like it was in the truck last night. Nothing like it was in the kitchen when she was standing too close and not stepping back.
That shift shouldn’t bother me, but my chest has other ideas.
“You get much done yesterday?” Nolan asks.
“Started clearing the back hall,” she says. “There’s more damage than we thought.”
We. His gaze flicks toward me, then back to her, something sharpening in the line of his mouth before he smooths it out.
“I would’ve waited,” he says.
“For what?” Lark asks.
“For me.”
The answer is quiet.
Too quiet.
Lark doesn’t hesitate.
“I don’t wait well. And if I remember correctly, you told me to forget this place or at least wait until your current project was up.”
Something low and immediate settles under my ribs at that, something that feels a lot like recognition and something else I don’t want to name yet.
“No,” I say, before I can stop myself. “She doesn’t.”
Lark’s eyes flick to mine before returning to her friend. The three of us stand there for a second, the morning stretching out around us, quiet and still and holding too much in it.
Then Lark turns toward the door.
“We should get started,” she says.
And just like that, the moment breaks.
Inside, the air still carries the faint scent of smoke, though it’s lighter now, dulled by the work we’ve already done and the fresh air we forced through the place yesterday.
Dust catches the sunlight filtering through the windows, drifting slowly and visibly in the space between beams and broken plaster.
Lark moves through it like she’s already halfway focused on the next step. She sets her bag down, flips open her notebook, and starts talking through what needs to happen next without looking at either of us.
“We finish clearing the hall today,” she says. “Then I want to check the subflooring near the stairs before we move forward.”
Nolan nods once. “I’ll take the structural side.”
“I’ve got it,” she says.
His mouth tightens just slightly.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
I watch that exchange and file it away. This isn’t new for them; this push and pull; this quiet challenge layered under professional language.
“Split it,” I say. They both look at me. “We’ll get through it faster.”
A beat passes, then Lark nods.
“Fine.”
Nolan does the same. And just like that, we fall into motion.
Work fills the next few hours. The kind that seeps into your muscles and stays there, steady and repetitive, the rhythm of pulling boards, clearing debris, checking what’s salvageable and what isn’t.
I move between rooms without thinking about it, carrying sections of wood out to the growing pile near the back, hauling tools in, keeping my hands busy so my head doesn’t stay on the way Nolan watches her when she’s not looking.
He notices everything. So do I. That’s the problem.
Lark kneels near the base of the stairs again, working at a section that’s been giving her trouble since we started.
“You’re going to crack it,” Nolan says from behind her.
“I won’t.”
“You’re forcing it.”
“I’ve got it.”
A pause, then, quieter—
“You don’t have to prove you can do everything the hard way.”
Her grip tightens. That moment where control slips just enough to turn into something else.
I step in.
“Give me that.”
“Don’t.”
“Lark.”
“I said I’ve—”
I take the pry bar from her anyway. Her fingers brush mine as I pull it free, and the contact lands more sensually than it should, like it carries something from last night with it that neither of us has addressed.
I don’t linger on that thought. Instead, I angle the tool, adjust my stance, and apply pressure.
The board lifts clean. No crack. No split.
“You see that,” Nolan says.
I don’t look at him, but at her only to find she’s watching me with a shift in her expression.
Whatever moment we share is shattered when Nolan’s phone rings. The door shuts behind him with a heavier sound than it should. Like whatever he stepped out to handle wasn’t something he wanted us to hear.
The second it shuts, the air changes. It always does between us. Like something releases or tightens. I’m not sure which.
Lark stands slowly as I straighten.
We’re too close again. The hallway doesn’t leave room for anything else.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“Yes, I did.”
“I could’ve handled it.”
“I know you think that.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I don’t need you stepping in every time something doesn’t go perfectly.”
“And I don’t need to watch you make it harder than necessary.”
Her breath shifts.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No,” I say.
I take a step closer, so I’m now in her space. Now she feels it.
“But I get to say something when I see it.”
Her gaze lifts and locks on mine.
“You’re making this something it’s not,” she says.
“Then tell me what it is.”
She opens her mouth, but stops. My hand lifts slowly, deliberately. Giving her time to stop me as my fingers settle at her waist.
Her breath catches, and I physically fight back an answering smirk at that reaction.
“You should stop,” she says.
“You want me to?”
A beat.
“No.”
That’s all I need. The space between us closes slowly, like we both understand exactly what this is and neither of us is pretending we don’t.
My mouth brushes hers first. I don’t kiss her. Not because I don’t want to, but because I know I won’t stop if I do.
It’s barely there. A test. A question. She answers by leaning in. And in a matter of nanoseconds, it deepens. Her hand comes up, catching in my shirt, not pulling, just holding, grounding herself like she needs something steady to anchor to.
I slide my hand fully to her waist now, fingers pressing just enough to feel her there, to know she’s real and not something I built up in my head over the past two days.
She exhales softly against my mouth. And the way she’s kissing me like she’s been holding this back just as long as I have.
The sound shifts everything. I angle closer.
The kiss intensifies, not out of control, not rushed, but building in a way that feels inevitable, like this was always where we were going and we just finally stopped pretending otherwise.
Her body presses closer. Every inch of space between us disappears until there’s nothing left but contact and the slow, steady slide of something that feels a lot like losing control in the best possible way.
Time stretches. I don’t know how long we stay there. I don’t care. Because for a second—there’s no Nolan. No inn. No reason this is a bad idea. Just her.
And the way she’s kissing me is like she’s been holding this back just as long as I have.
Then the front door opens, and we break apart instantly. Lark steps back first, her chest heaving with uneven breaths, eyes wide.
I stay where I am for half a second longer, knowing that if I move, I might end up right back with her.
Nolan steps inside, stops, then looks between us. The shift in the room is obvious.
By the look on his face, I can see he knows something happened, just not sure what.
“What did I miss?” he asks.
Lark turns away too quickly for my liking.
“Nothing,” she says.
But we both know that’s not true. And there’s no chance in hell that I’m going to pretend it is.