Chapter 18LARK #2
Before I can respond, the door swings open so hard it nearly smacks Dawn in the face.
She sidesteps just in time as Miller strides in, her arms overloaded with clothing—dresses, tops, skirts, even a pair of heels hooked onto her fingers.
A purse dangles from her wrist, like she’s just ransacked an entire department store.
Dawn blinks at her. “Well, hell. You moving in?”
Miller barely acknowledges her, setting everything down in a dramatic flourish on the couch. “Nope. Just saving this one from embarrassing herself with her questionable fashion choices.”
I stare at her. “Miller, what the hell —” I gesture at the mountain of clothes. “When I said I needed help picking something to wear tonight, I meant from my own closet .”
Miller waves a dismissive hand. “Well, that’s on you for not being specific.” She lifts a sleek black top, inspecting it with a critical eye. “Besides, I figured you could use an upgrade. No offense.”
Dawn cackles. “You’re trouble, girl.”
I rub my temples. “What is all of this?”
Miller holds up a sheer blouse, then a leather miniskirt like she’s unveiling a Picasso. “This is vintage Mugler. Fall ‘99. And these—” she plucks a pair of pants from the pile, holding them up like a prized jewel—“Saint Laurent, 2002.”
I look at her like she’s lost her damn mind. “Miller, have you ever been to The Lucky Devil?”
She scoffs, partially offended. “Duh. It’s the only halfway decent dive bar in a hundred-mile radius.”
“Right.” I gesture to the clothing. “So why the hell would I wear designer to a dive bar ?”
She shrugs, completely unfazed. “Because you’re drop-dead gorgeous, you’re going out with a man who looks like he was handcrafted by the gods of good genetics, and quite frankly, I refuse to let you dress like someone who just crawled out of a PTA meeting.”
Dawn barks out a laugh, slapping a hand against my back. “I like her.”
Miller smirks, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Who doesn’t?”
The door swings shut behind Dawn as she calls out, “Have fun, ladies!” her voice lilting with amusement.
I let out a breath, turning back to the mess Miller has created in my living room—dresses draped over the couch, silk tops spilling onto the floor, a pair of strappy heels I can already feel giving me blisters.
I run my fingers over a slinky black dress that looks like it might disintegrate if I breathe on it too hard.
“What happens,” I say slowly, picking at the delicate fabric between my fingers, “if someone accidentally spills a beer all over one of these designers?”
Miller looks at me, deadpan. “Then I’d have no choice but to destroy their entire bloodline.”
I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “I can’t wear any of this.”
“You can, and you will.” She plucks a dress from the pile, holding it up against me.
I roll my eyes, watching as she holds up another option, lips pursed in thought. “And what am I supposed to do with my hair?”
Miller drapes the dress over her arm like she’s about to deliver a final verdict and meets my gaze with a slow blink, unfazed. “Well. Maybe start with a hairbrush and go from there.”
A sharp breath escapes me—half laugh, half disbelief—and without thinking, I grab the nearest throw pillow from the couch and hurl it straight at her.
It lands with a satisfying thud against her face, knocking the sunglasses off the top of her head.
They clatter to the floor as she gasps, hand flying to her heart like I’ve mortally wounded her.
“Those are Chanel, you bitch!” she shouts, voice caught between outrage and amusement.
Laughter spills out of me, full and unfiltered, my shoulders shaking.
Miller’s grinning too, stooping to pick up her sunglasses, which thankfully didn’t snap in two.
She’s still got that wild glint in her eyes, the same one she used to have when we’d sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor as teenagers, bottles of cheap nail polish scattered between us.
Back then, life felt infinite and electric, the world nothing more than a series of possibilities strung together like the glossy posters on my walls—Chad Michael Murray and Orlando Bloom grinning down at us from their crooked push-pin thrones, witnesses to our whispered secrets and endless summers.
It’s astonishing, really, how easily it all comes back with her—the way we fall into that rhythm like no time has passed. Like we’re still fourteen and convinced the height of sophistication was clear lip gloss and over-plucking our eyebrows into oblivion.
I bend down to gather a handful of clothes from the monstrous heap at our feet, folding them over my arm. “Come on. Let’s haul this disaster zone upstairs.”
Miller loops her bag over her shoulder, her voice light as she calls after me, “Just a heads up, I’ve got six more pairs of heels out in the car.”
At the top of the stairs, I pause and turn just enough to look back at her. She’s grinning like a kid who knows she’s pushing it, but I don’t even have it in me to be surprised anymore.
Her footsteps echo behind me, steady against the old wooden stairs that creak in all the familiar spots.
The hallway smells faintly like the laundry detergent I’ve used for years, and I catch sight of one of Hudson’s socks kicked against the baseboard, half rolled up and abandoned. Always a trail, that kid.
Miller’s halfway into my closet by the time I walk through the door, already elbows-deep in hangers and muttering something about “unsalvageable cotton blends” under her breath.
She moves fast—ruthless and determined. A pair of jeans gets flung over her shoulder, landing somewhere on the floor, but she doesn’t even look back. It’s a little terrifying, honestly.
I drop the clothes from earlier onto my desk chair and collapse onto the bed. The mattress gives under me with a worn-in creak and I fall back, arms splayed, staring at the ceiling for a moment before my eyes drift to the nightstand.
The daisies are still there.
Three of them, in a mason jar that used to hold strawberry jam, now filled halfway with water and already turning a little cloudy. The yellow petals are curling at the edges, starting to sag under their own weight, but I can’t bring myself to throw them out.
This afternoon, Boone texted me, short, casual— Mom wants to plan a movie night with Hudson. You okay with him staying here tonight?
I wasn’t sure. Hudson’s never spent the night anywhere I wasn’t. For twelve years, it’s been him and me, a team of two with no room for error. I wasn’t ready to let that shift, not really, but I told him it was his choice. I didn’t want to be the reason he missed out.
Predictably, he lost his mind with excitement—started listing movies, snacks, what kind of pajamas he should bring. The whole nine yards. So I packed his bag, checked it twice, and drove him over.
I barely got the damn car door shut before I saw him.
Boone. Out in the pasture. On horseback. In chaps .
Like full-on, real-deal, leather chaps that hugged his thighs and made my brain short-circuit on sight.
He was riding Springsteen like he was modeling for a cowboy calendar—hat low over his eyes, sun lighting up the dust around him like a movie scene, all raw muscle and easy control.
And I just stood there. Staring. Like a creep.
Because apparently, the universe had been saving this version of Boone for a moment when I was emotionally unprepared and extra horny. And yeah, I’d seen him dirty and sweaty before—this wasn’t new. But the chaps? The way he moved in them ?
That was new. That was a problem.
It felt rude, honestly. Like, how dare he? How dare the universe? Who allowed this?
I had no business being this affected, but my ovaries were already writing his name in cursive.
He saw me from across the fence line, swung down in one fluid move, and the next thing I knew, he was right there, boots crunching over the gravel, hands framing my face as he kissed me.
Not soft. Not casual. It was like he’d been thinking about doing it all day.
His palms were rough and warm against my skin, and I honestly might’ve blacked out a little.
“Since he’s staying,” Boone murmured when he pulled back, his lips still just barely brushing mine, “we should go out. Just us.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to keep my pulse from jumping out of my chest. “You did this on purpose.”
His grin spread across his whole face. “Yeah, well…if I’m gonna manipulate you, I might as well make it worth your while.”
He was impossible, and he knew it.
Then, while we were finishing up lunch, Hudson had asked if Boone and I were dating. Just straight out with it, because that’s Hudson. No filter, no preamble, just a question he wants the answer to.
I didn’t know what to say. There’s no label for what we are, not yet, and I didn’t want to give him something shiny and definitive only to have it fall apart later.
So I told him the truth—the messy, un-glamorous truth that Boone keeps telling me is okay to say out loud.
“I’m not sure, bud. We’re figuring things out. Seeing where they go.”
Hudson had just grinned and shrugged. “I think it’d be pretty cool if you were.”
Simple as that. Like the idea of Boone being in our lives wasn’t complicated or terrifying. Just cool .
He’s already gotten so attached to his dad within these last couple of months, and I can’t blame him for it.
Boone has this way of making people feel like they belong wherever he is.
Like they’re safe there, like he is the safe place.
It’s one of the things I love most about him—and one of the scariest.
Because if this doesn’t work out, if Boone and I fall apart, Hudson’s the one who’ll feel it the most. And I don’t know if I can live with that kind of disappointment. Not his.
Miller snaps her fingers an inch from my face, jolting me out of the tailspin my brain was happily spiraling into. I blink, disoriented, daisy stems still blurred in my peripheral vision.