11. Lark
LARK
I really should have kissed Wyatt.
I wanted to kiss him that night on the porch.
Something about his rough, grumpy exterior was working for me.
Really working , and in that moment I had wanted nothing more than to wrap my legs around him and let him devour me .
Maybe it was the way he always seemed a little lighter around his adorable daughter.
Or the way he was looking after three unruly college football players.
Or the fact that despite being back in his hometown, he seemed really, really lonely.
His broad shoulders and chiseled jaw certainly didn’t put any marks in the This Is a Terrible Idea column.
I groaned inwardly. I definitely should have kissed him.
“Hey, can you clear that table over there?”
Torn from my thoughts, I gave Sylvie a shy smile. “On it.”
Tootie had called in a favor and gotten me a summer job at the Sugar Bowl, and so far it was... not great. They didn’t really need me. It was a pity hire. I knew it, and they knew it.
Sylvie worked behind the register and seemed to run the bakery as kind of a general manager, while Huck Benton, the burly owner and baker, mostly kept to himself in the back. Huck had nodded a brusque greeting and disappeared into the kitchen.
I smiled, remembering how I’d met his fiancée my first day in Outtatowner.
The way they’d looked at each other was the sweetest thing, and a little pang of envy pinched beneath my ribs.
Sylvie had already started rambling on about the bakery’s daily specials and attempted a quick rundown on how to use the commercial coffee maker.
A barista, I was not.
I quickly learned that the machine wasn’t nearly as simple as a Keurig, and between pumps of mocha, shots of espresso, and steamed milk flying everywhere, I was quickly relegated to table-busing duty.
Sylvie was kind and patient but also annoyed, so I quietly slipped the barista apron from around my neck and picked up a rag.
I piled up small plates, cups, and saucers as I maneuvered through the crowded bakery.
The Sugar Bowl was a gathering place for many Outtatowner locals.
Overhearing conversations about the rapidly approaching “busy season” and plans for the influx of tourists was fascinating.
Several times I got caught up in the conversations, pausing to listen in with a smile on my face until scrunched noses and curious looks broke me from my wandering ears.
I offered a polite smile but kept moving.
But I couldn’t help it. The town was intriguing. Many people had wacky nicknames, and it made my head spin trying to keep everyone straight.
Bowlegs’s twin brother came in, and someone bought him a black coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. He joined the small group of old men, and despite the fact he wore a trapper hat and was missing several teeth, no one batted an eye or made it seem at all uncommon.
From the few conversations I could catch in passing, Bowlegs and his brother were neither Sullivans nor Kings—among the few people who managed to straddle the line.
The local bar, the Grudge Holder, was open to everyone.
Huck’s bakery was also one of only three businesses that also refused to pick sides.
Sylvie was a King, and I didn’t miss how she’d subtly slip into the back whenever too many Sullivans came around.
With the patrons inside, there was also a visible divide between Kings, Sullivans, and tourists, if you knew to look for it.
The tinkling of the bell on the door was constant, and I was already sweating before 10:00 a.m. I had placed the last pile of dishes from a high-top table into my arms and swiveled to carry them to the back when I crashed into the back of an older woman waiting in line.
“My goodness!” the woman shouted.
Startled, the dishes slipped from my arms and crashed to the floor. The commotion drew every eye in the bakery as I sank to my knees and frantically tried to clean the broken plates and spilled coffee.
Heat burned my cheeks. “Crap! I am so sorry. I’m sorry.”
Sylvie knelt beside me with a large plastic tub and a rag to help gather the mess.
“I’m sorry, Sylvie. I didn’t see her.”
“It’s okay.” Her kind smile eased the sharp edge of my nerves, and Sylvie glanced up at the woman. “Your order is on the house today, Ms. Tiny.”
“Thank you.” Her nose tipped up at Sylvie, but then she added, “I suppose accidents do happen.” The woman named Tiny smiled at me, and I finally exhaled.
I leaned closer to Sylvie. “Thank you. Really, I am sorry.”
Sylvie winked at me as she discarded the last shards of a broken cup. She leaned in closer to whisper. “Just be glad it wasn’t me who knocked into her. Ms. Tiny can be a bit of a bear, but since you’re a Sullivan, she’s willing to overlook it.”
My cheeks flamed again at being lumped in with the Sullivans. Part of me really liked that. Being claimed by a tribe of fiercely loyal family members.
“I’m not really anyone’s, I guess.”
Sylvie’s shoulder pushed against mine. “Well, don’t tell her that.”
We both got to our feet and moved toward the kitchen. I grabbed the square bucket from her. “I’ll take care of this. Thanks for your help.”
“Hey—not that side!”
Just as I pushed through the swinging doors to the back kitchen, I crashed into Huck and the tray of pastries he was carrying.
Muffins went tumbling.
Scones flying.
My eyes were huge as I looked into his deep frown, and a thick well of emotions clogged in my throat.
Weren’t out-of-work actresses supposed to be good servers? How am I so bad at this?
I pouted, defeated, and as I lifted my face to the ceiling, I shouted, “I just want to be a cliché!”
Huck’s deep, rumbling laughter was unexpected but broke me from feeling completely sorry for myself. His gentle hand landed on my shoulder.
“Trust me, I wish you were too. How does dishwashing sound?”
I couldn’t help but laugh—at his kind response along with how epically tragic and short lived my first day was. I was fired for sure.
“Just lock me up back here. Maybe people will be safer.”
He shook his head. “At the very least, the scones will be.”
Surprisingly, Huck didn’t fire me.
Instead, he offered to let me stay on and do the work no one else liked to do—dishwashing, general cleanup, and organizing in the back. After years of temp work I could slide in to organize, clean, and thoughtfully do whatever tasks were handed to me, apart from waitressing, obviously.
As it turned out, Huck was a very messy baker, and he and Sylvie went round and round about the disasters he left in the back kitchen.
The thought of returning to the Sugar Bowl for another humiliating day of Let’s See What Else Lark Is Bad At felt daunting, but Huck assured me that my tenacity for tackling his disastrous pantry was enough to keep me around.
I had spent the afternoon organizing every shelf and ingredient by expiration and how often it was used.
I’d even started a spreadsheet to track what ingredients would need to be ordered.
I had plans for labels. So many labels. By the time my shift ended, I was tired and covered in flour, not to mention that there was something sticky under my shoe.
As I crossed the street and headed to my car, I maneuvered past a set of very long legs, which a man had stretched from a bench onto the sidewalk.
As I wound around him, I heard him call out, “Staying a while, then?”
His words stopped me, and I looked up. A King .
I recognized the man from Bowlegs’s funeral—the intense one with all the tattoos. I looked around, making sure he was speaking with me, and when no one else seemed to pause at his words, I nodded.
Am I supposed to be talking to him? Is a Sullivan spy going to be around the corner and sic Ms. Tiny on me?
It was odd, feeling as though my loyalties were squarely in Sullivan territory, and talking on the open sidewalk with a King felt brazen, wrong almost. When I looked up, he was sitting just outside of a shop, King Tattoo.
His tattoos covered both arms and trailed from his biceps down to the tops of his hands.
His sharp features were fierce, and a shot of worry danced through me as my thoughts immediately flew to Wyatt.
“Um,” I attempted an answer with a smile pasted in place. “I’m new in town, I guess. Enjoying a coastal summer.”
His eyes roamed over me in a lazy, confident way. I was sure women fell hard for that all-encompassing, attentive stare.
“Friday nights are a good time ’round here. Maybe I’ll see you out and you can save me a dance.”
I laughed politely. “Yeah, maybe.” Maybe not.
I scooted around his legs and picked up my pace toward my car. Something in my gut told me that messing with a King, even for a newcomer, was a very bad idea.
* * *
“Hi, Ms. Lark!”
I squinted against the sun as I looked across the driveway at Wyatt’s farmhouse. Penny’s face was squished against the mesh on the screen door.
I called back to her from my open kitchen window. “Hey, Penny! What are you up to?”
“Dying of boredom.”
I chuckled at her sullen, squished-up face.
“Pickle, stop bothering the neighbor.” The deep rumble of Wyatt’s voice floated up to me.
With a smile, I left the apartment and took the stairs down. “It’s no bother,” I called out.
Penny burst through the door. “See! She’s not busy! Do you want to play? Dad told me you were busy, but you’re not.” She gestured toward me.
I laughed and spread my hands. “Nope. Not busy.”
“Perfect! We can do cartwheels or draw or go for a walk. We can’t watch a movie, because Dad has to look at boring football videos.”
“Pickle.” Wyatt pushed through the screen door and stepped onto the covered porch as I stifled a smile. “Leave her be.”
My tongue felt thick as I took in Wyatt, barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt.
Penny’s shoulders fell. “I thought you said we were going to have fun.”
My heart went out to her, and I scrunched my nose. “Football videos don’t sound like much fun.”
Wyatt’s lips pressed together in a firm line as he nodded in defeat. “It’s work.”
“How about a walk? I can take her around the trail and give you a little time to work. Would that be okay?”
Penny lit up at my suggestion as Wyatt looked me over. Under his assessing gaze, I held my chin high and hoped my smile didn’t falter. I loved kids, and Penny was hilarious.
“Please, Daddy! Please please please please.”
“You’re sure it’s not interrupting anything?”
Penny’s fist shot in the air when she knew she’d worn her poor dad down.
“I have all the time in the world. We’ll have a great time.” I held out my hand to Penny as she leaped off the porch stairs to stand at my side.
I had turned to walk away when Wyatt’s grumpy voice rang out. “Be back before dark.”
A shot of laughter erupted from me as I turned to salute him before leaning down and giggling with Penny. “Yes, boss.”
* * *
By Friday night, curiosity got the best of me, and I decided to explore the nightlife in Outtatowner. During my first few days, I’d managed to keep my head down at the bakery, stay in the back, and try not to break any more dishes.
I was mostly successful.
As the days lurched on, more and more tourists had filtered into town, and I could see the shift from lazy days to the controlled chaos of the full-blown tourist season.
The Grudge Holder turned out to be the local Outtatowner bar and dance hall on the far edge of the main strip of roadway. Music pumped from the speakers, and signs outside boasted Summer Specials and bands that were scheduled all summer long.
In my travels, I found that random townie bars were ripe for people watching and picking up quirky mannerisms I could use on my next gig. It also gave me something to do other than not-so-casually stalk my kitchen window to see if I could catch a glimpse of Wyatt across the driveway.
By 8:00 p.m., the band was playing, the dance floor was full, and happy cheers of encouragement filled the neon-drenched space.
I sat back, enjoying the view from a stool at the main bar.
The band played a mix of rock-and-roll classics along with a few country songs.
I laughed aloud at a twangy version of Harry Styles, and it was good enough to almost get me to my feet.
I spotted Sylvie, and she offered a friendly wave but was deep in her conversation, so I settled on a high stool near the bar. When the bartender leaned over, I shouted above the music, “Do you have any Beer Thirty?”
The man shot me a confused look, so I just smiled and waved a hand in the air. “Whatever you have on draft is fine.”
He nodded and stepped away.
“May I have this dance?” I turned toward the deep voice to my left.
My mouth popped open to find the guy from the sidewalk, dressed in jeans and a formfitting black shirt, extending his heavily tattooed arm. He smiled, and the edges of his eyes crinkled, making him much friendlier than he appeared. “I’m Royal.”
My brain stuttered. “Royal? Royal... King. Your parents named you Royal King ?”
He laughed and pulled his hand back, straightening to his full height.
“No, ma’am. They actually like me.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. He was charming in a direct, slightly aggressive kind of way.
“In a place like this, nicknames have a way of sticking.”
“Ah.” I smiled and took a sip of the beer that had appeared in front of me, but I didn’t make the move of stepping down from my stool. “That’s good news, then.”
“If you stick around a while, maybe I’ll let you in on my real name.” He winked and a weird sensation passed over my clammy skin. “So what do you say? One dance?”
I looked around the crowded dance floor, trying to find some excuse to politely refuse him, when from across the bar, I saw Wyatt Sullivan stomping across the beat-up hardwood with murder in his eyes.