Chapter Eighteen – Lark
The following morning, I stand at the kitchen sink longer than necessary, turning the same mug in my hands beneath the stream of warm water, watching it catch along the rim and spill over the edge in uneven sheets.
The ceramic is already clean. It has been for a while now.
I know that, logically. Still, I don’t set it down.
The repetition helps. The steadiness of it. The illusion that something can be rinsed clear if I just give it enough time.
Behind me, the house moves through its usual rhythm—cabinet doors opening and closing, the soft scrape of a chair shifting, the low hum of something cooking on the stove—but it all feels slightly out of sync, like I’m a half step behind everything that’s supposed to feel normal.
Because nothing does. Not after yesterday. Not after the way things shifted at the inn. Not after the way Holt looked at me like there wasn’t a single part of this he planned to walk away from.
Not after the way I didn’t want him to.
“You’re going to wear a hole through that cup.”
Holt’s voice cuts through the quiet.
I glance over my shoulder.
He stands at the stove, one hand braced lightly against the counter while the other moves through the pan with slow, practiced ease. Steam curls upward, catching in the morning light that spills through the window behind her, softening the edges of everything in the room.
There’s a plate already set on the counter beside him. I didn’t notice it when I walked in. Eggs. Toast. Something simple.
Waiting.
Like he made it without asking if I wanted it. Like he assumed I would. Like he hoped.
He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, he gives me space to respond.
I shut off the water and set the mug down carefully.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says easily. “It’s a sturdy cup.”
The simplicity of it almost pulls a laugh out of me. Almost.
I lean back against the counter instead, crossing my arms loosely, letting the warmth of the room settle around me without quite letting it in.
Holt glances up, then his eyes find mine. I look away first, my gaze settling on the green scape through the window, toward the stretch of yard beyond where the grass catches the light. The barn stands solid and unchanged, like it hasn’t noticed anything different about the past few days.
I shift my weight slightly, uncrossing my arms, then crossing them again like I can’t decide what to do with them.
Through the reflection in the mirror, I watch as Holt turns back to the stove and flips something in the pan. The quiet that follows feels different from the silence at the inn.
Like I’m allowed to exist in it without having to explain myself.
After I take a ridiculously long shower, Holt is already gone. I can feel it before I fully register it.
There’s no truck in the driveway. No boots by the door. No low, steady presence moving through the house in the background like something constant I didn’t realize I’d started relying on.
I grab a bottle of water and step out onto the porch.
The air is crisper here, brushing against my skin in a way that feels grounding, pulling me back into something real. The sun sits higher now, light stretching across the yard in long, soft lines, catching on the fence, the barn, the uneven patches of grass where the ground dips slightly.
Rook nudges my hand incessantly, and I glance down at him. He stares up at me like he’s already decided we’re moving.
“You’re right,” I murmur. “We should walk.”
He takes off down the steps immediately, as if he’s been waiting for permission I didn’t realize I’d given.
The path around the property isn’t defined, but it’s worn instead, shaped by movement over time, by people and animals choosing the same direction often enough that the ground remembers it.
I step into it without thinking, letting my feet follow where it leads. Rook sticks close, pausing every few feet to sniff, to check, to confirm that everything is still where it’s supposed to be.
I understand that instinct more than I want to.
The barn comes into view slowly, rising out of the landscape like something anchored, something that doesn’t shift no matter what changes around it.
Tabby greets me before I even step inside. I crouch without thinking, my hand reaching out automatically as she nudges into it, warm and curious and entirely unconcerned with anything beyond the moment she’s in.
“Hi,” I murmur.
Her nose presses into my palm, and something deep inside me eases for the first time all day. Because these are the simple parts of life I need. There’s no second-guessing here. No expectations layered underneath it. No pressure to prove anything or hold something together.
A sound cuts through the quiet, sharp enough to break the moment clean. I don’t need to check the screen to know who it is. There’s a familiarity to it. I answer anyway.
“Hello.”
“Lark.”
My mother’s voice is precise in that overly controlling way. It hits the same way it always does—like something tightening around me before I even have a chance to react.
“You didn’t answer my last two calls.”
I straighten slowly, stepping out of the cat’s stall she’s claimed as hers, needing space, needing air.
“I’ve been working.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“I spoke to Nolan.”
Of course she did.
My eyes close briefly. Not because I’m surprised. Because I can already picture how it happened—Nolan’s voice careful, my mother’s sharpened into opportunity, both of them circling the same concern from entirely different motives.
“What did he tell you?”
“That you’re distracted.”
I go still.
Disappointed, yes. But not surprised.
Nolan wouldn’t have meant it the way she does. I know that, even if I don’t want to. From him, distracted means hurt. Tired. Too close to something dangerous and pretending it’s manageable.
From her, it means inconvenient.
I close my eyes briefly.
“What did he tell you?”
“That you’re not focused.”
I step out of the barn completely now, the open air hitting me harder than it should.
“I’m doing my job.”
“That’s not what he said.”
“That’s his perspective.” And maybe I hate him a little for giving her language she could twist.
But I know Nolan.
He didn’t call her because he wanted her to take over. He called because, somewhere under all that bluntness and bad timing, he got scared.
That doesn’t make it okay. It just makes it messier.
“And yours?”
My grip on the phone tightens because I know she’s not interested in anything but what will get her more money.
“My perspective is that the project is moving forward.”
A pause, longer this time.
“He also mentioned you’re staying somewhere… inappropriate.”
There it is. I should’ve expected it.
“It’s temporary housing.”
“With a man.”
The way she says it, I can imagine her lips twisting as if she’s sucked on something sour.
I let out a short breath.
“I don’t particularly care how it looks.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
Something in me has shifted. I’m not willing to let this be framed the way she wants.
“You said you are there to prove something. Instead, you’re just proving that you can’t make any good decisions,” she says.
Something hollow opens beneath my ribs. “You always do this,” she says. “You get close to something, and then you let it derail you.”
Something in me snaps.
“I am not derailing anything.”
“You are if you let yourself get distracted.”
I start walking again without thinking, needing movement, needing something to keep me from standing still under the weight of it.
“I’m not discussing this,” I say.
“Don’t make a mistake you can’t undo.”
The line goes dead.
I don’t stop walking. The phone is still in my hand, my grip tight around it, my pulse uneven in a way I can’t quite steady. I don’t realize I’m shaking until I try to slow down, until I try to breathe.
Holt’s truck pulls in later. I hear it before I see it. The low rumble of the engine cuts through the quiet, gravel shifting under the tires as he pulls to a stop near the house.
Something in me reacts immediately. I’m not sure if it’s relief or something else.
Holt steps out, closing the door behind him, then looks up, finding me immediately. And in a split second, everything else fades to the edges.
He walks toward me, questions floating behind his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. But it’s too fast to seem normal.
His gaze instantly sharpens.
“Try that again.”
I exhale slowly, letting my shoulders drop.
“My mom called.”
That’s all it takes for something in his expression shifts. Hardening.
“What did she say?”
“That I’m distracted.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not her call.”
“No,” I say quietly. “But it sounds familiar.”
His gaze darkens.
“Nolan.”
Holt steps closer, enough that I feel it before he touches me.
“They don’t get to decide that,” he says.
“They think they do.”
“They don’t.”
“You have a job that pulls you away without warning,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I have one that requires me to stay focused no matter what. Especially if I’m going to make the inn the legacy it needs to be.”
He doesn’t step back.
“That doesn’t mean we stop this.”
“This?” I repeat.
“Yeah.”
I swallow hard, the motion sending a rock to settle in my stomach.
“And when it gets harder?” I ask.
“It already has.”
“And?”
“And I’m still here.”
The answer is simple. Holt’s standing here choosing this, choosing me. Even when it complicates everything.
My breath catches.
“Lark.”
The kiss builds slowly. Nothing rushed. Nothing stolen. His hands settle at my waist, steady, grounding, and I feel the contrast of it—the control he holds, the way he chooses restraint even when everything between us feels like it’s pushing past it.
My fingers curl into his shirt. Anchoring me to him. The world doesn’t disappear. Instead, it narrows. The barn. The field. The lingering tension from the call. All of it still exists. It just doesn’t matter enough to stop this.
His mouth moves against mine with intention, slower than before, deeper, like he’s learning something instead of taking it.
I lean into him, letting myself feel it. The way this feels like something real in a way nothing else has in a long time.
When we pull back, it’s not because we have to.
“This is going to get harder,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re still here.”
His answer doesn’t change.
“No plans to leave.”
And I believe him. I shouldn’t. That’s the part that keeps catching on something inside me, the part that doesn’t quite settle the way everything else does.
I’ve spent too long learning how quickly things shift. How easily something steady can turn into something conditional. Temporary. Convenient.
And Holt—Holt doesn’t feel like any of that. That’s what makes it dangerous.
I linger where I am for a second longer than I should, aware of the way his hands are still at my waist, the way he hasn’t stepped back even though the moment has softened, even though the urgency of it has faded into something quieter.
Something steadier.
His thumb brushes once, absentminded, along the side of my shirt. It’s small, barely anything, but it sends something warm and unfamiliar through my chest.
“You’re thinking again,” he murmurs.
I huff a quiet breath. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not bad,” he says. “Just… loud.”
I glance up at him. “Loud?”
“Yeah,” he says, studying me in that way that makes me feel like he sees more than I’ve actually said. “Like you’re already trying to figure out how this ends.”
His gaze softens slightly.
“Maybe don’t do that yet,” he says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Decide how this ends before it gets started.”
The realization hits low and deep, stealing the air from my lungs for half a second. Because I have been doing that. Bracing for the ending before I ever let myself want the middle. And something in me changes after that, enough that I don’t step back.