LARK #3
“Just saying. Boone’s been looking for a reason to play hero since the second he got back.”
I shake my head. Not happening. Boone Wilding is the last person I need in my ear right now, telling me what to do, taking this out of my hands like I can’t handle it myself.
Miller sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Don’t call him. Be stubborn. Keep marinating in your self-inflicted misery.”
I let out a slow breath and drop my head into my hands. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating from the inside out—too much stress, too much caffeine, not enough sleep.
“I don’t know what to do,” I mumble into my palms.
Miller exhales, loud enough for me to hear. “Alright, give me the paperwork.”
I blink up at her. “What?”
She wiggles her fingers at me. “The documents they gave you. The ones that say you’re apparently running a diner that’s been rat-infested overnight.”
I reach for the folder I tossed onto the coffee table earlier and hand it over. Miller takes it and flips through the pages, skimming the text, her mouth tightening.
“What exactly did they say you failed for?” she asks, still scanning.
I lean back against the couch, feeling completely wrung out. “Improper food storage. Temperature violations with the refrigeration units. Evidence of rodent droppings in the dry goods pantry. ”
Miller lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I press my fingers into my temples, shaking my head. “The Bluebell has never failed a health inspection. Not once. Not since it opened back in the seventies.”
Miller doesn’t look up. “I believe it.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“I was there when the inspector came. I walked her through every storage unit, every fridge, every shelf in the pantry. She told me everything looked perfect. She said it to my face. So what do I do now?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean for it to.
Miller finally glances up, her brows pulling together like she’s weighing her words carefully.
“This has Wendell Tate written all over it,” she says.
My stomach turns. I knew it. But still, hearing it out loud makes it feel real in a way I wasn’t ready for.
I swallow hard. “But how? How was he able to do this?”
Miller purses her lips, flipping back to the first page of the report.
“If I had to guess? He found a way to get the original report tossed and replaced with this one. Could’ve been anything—someone in his pocket at the health department, a forged document, hell, maybe he paid off the inspector to suddenly ‘remember’ things differently.
” She shrugs. “Either way, he wanted you shut down, and now you are.”
I exhale slowly, trying to keep my hands from shaking.
“That’s illegal,” I say, but the words feel thin, useless.
Miller tilts her head. “Yeah. And? It’s Wendell.”
Right. Like Wendell Tate gives a shit about playing fair.
I push off the couch and start pacing, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack through my ribs. “So what do I do, Miller? Because it’s not like I can march into his office and demand that he undoes it.”
Miller watches me for a beat, then sighs, setting the papers aside.
“You appeal the report, obviously,” she says. “But if you really want to fix this? You find a way to take Wendell down before he takes you down first. ”
“How?” My voice comes out tight, raw, edged in frustration. “I have no proof. No paper trail. Whoever he’s got working for him sure as hell isn’t gonna rat him out, not when he’s probably paying them more than their conscience is worth.”
Miller hums, slow and considering, then grins. The kind of grin that usually means someone’s about to get their ass handed to them.
“Good thing you’ve got a best friend who can be a scary bitch when she needs to be.”
“Miller—”
She pushes up from the couch, grabbing her purse from the coffee table like she’s already made up her mind.
I cross my arms. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you figure this out.” She slings the bag over her shoulder, checks her phone. “And in the meantime, you’re gonna stop worrying about it.”
I let out a sharp laugh, hands flying to my hips. “Oh, yeah. Sure. I’ll just kick back and relax while my life collapses. Maybe take up crocheting while I’m at it.”
Miller flicks her eyes up from her phone, deadpan. “You’d be terrible at crocheting.”
I let out a frustrated noise, my fingers twitching with the need to throw something. “I’m not gonna let you do whatever this is by yourself.”
Miller sighs, pressing a hand to her chest in mock emotion. “Wow. You actually do love me.”
I glare.
She grins. “Look, you sitting here, glaring at the health department website like it’s gonna tell you who framed you, isn’t doing anything. You need to be with Hudson. Be a mom for a bit. Let me handle this.”
“I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”
Miller’s brows lift. “You think being Hudson’s mom is nothing?”
I open my mouth, then shut it.
She smirks. “That’s what I thought.”
I exhale sharply, my fingers digging into my sides. “If you need me to do anything—”
“I’ll let you know.” She moves toward the door, already scrolling through something on her phone, probably plotting her next move. “In the meantime, maybe go outside. Breathe some fresh air. Look at a tree or something.”
I narrow my eyes. “I hate you.”
“Love you too.” She winks, then disappears out the door.
I stand there, staring after her, caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation.
Like hell if she thinks I’m just gonna sit at home while my diner is closed.
I start pacing, barefoot against the hardwood floor, my arms crossed tight over my chest like they might be the only thing holding me together. My mind spins through the same cycle of worst-case scenarios, each one worse than the last.
I have some savings. Enough to keep the lights on, pay the mortgage, make sure Hudson doesn’t go without. It’s not nothing.
But it won’t last forever.
If I can’t get the Bluebell back up and running soon, what happens then? What happens to my staff—people who have worked for me for years, who depend on those paychecks to keep their own families afloat?
Dawn has a mortgage. Finn just moved into his own place. I don’t have time to sit around and wait for things to fix themselves.
My pulse pounds against my temples, the frustration clawing up my throat.
The slam of the front door makes me jolt.
Hudson bursts in, grinning, covered in dirt from head to toe. His baseball uniform is streaked with dust, his socks pulled up unevenly, the front of his jersey untucked.
Through the sliver of the open door, I catch a glimpse of Boone’s truck idling in the driveway. Hudson waves goodbye over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him and turning toward me.
“You will not believe what happened at practice,” he says, practically vibrating with excitement as he kicks off his cleats.
“So we’ re doing this rundown drill, right?
And Ben—who, you know, takes baseball way too seriously—decides to get all fancy with it.
Starts running backward to tag out Jake, except he doesn’t see Coach behind him, and Coach’s holding, like, an entire Gatorade, and they just—” He claps his hands together, grinning.
“Boom. Whole thing goes flying. Coach’s soaked. ”
Despite everything, a small, tired smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“He’s never letting Ben live that down,” I say.
Hudson laughs, pulling off his socks. Dirt clouds the air. “Not in a million years.”
He tosses his socks toward the laundry room—they miss, but he doesn’t seem to care—before straightening, suddenly serious.
“Hey, uh, I know this kind of sucks but Coach says I need new cleats,” Hudson says, rubbing the back of his neck. “And probably new pants too.”
I blink at him, the words barely registering through the exhaustion fogging up my brain.
“Why do you need new cleats?” My voice is tight, already bracing for whatever answer is coming. “And I just bought you new pants a few months ago.”
He shifts on his feet, glancing down at his legs like he’s only now realizing how much taller he is. “Yeah, well…I kinda grew out of them already.”
Something inside me snaps.
The frustration, the helplessness, the sheer weight of everything pressing down on me all day finally cracks open.
“Hudson, not now, okay? Why don’t you go up to your room or something.” The words come out too sharp, too tired, too much.
He steps back immediately, his expression shifting. “I—okay. I just—”
I close my eyes, trying to calm the hell down, but the guilt hits too fast, too hard.
He’s just a kid. My kid. And he’s standing in front of me looking hurt and confused because I couldn’t get my shit together for five seconds.
I wrap my arms around him and press my lips to the top of his head. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, squeezing my eyes shut. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, baby. I’m just…stressed.”
He nods against me. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not. I’m sorry.” I tighten my grip on him, forcing my breath to steady. “But I love you. You know that, right?”
He lets out a small, muffled laugh. “Yeah, Mom. I know.”
I pull back, cupping his face for just a second. “Go take a shower before you get dirt on the couch.”
He grins, his face already half turned toward the stairs. “No promises.”
I watch him disappear up the steps, my chest tight.
The second his bedroom door clicks shut, the tears come—fast, hot, relentless. But they’re not sad.
They’re angry.
At Wendell.
At Boone.
At myself.
At all of it.
I swipe at my cheeks, jaw tight, heart pounding like it’s looking for someone to blame. I don’t know how I’m going to fix this. Not yet.
But I will.
I have to.