Chapter Eight – Holt
By the time we leave the inn, the sun has dropped low enough to turn everything gold.
The light catches on the front windows, on the warped porch rail, on the broken edges of things Lark has spent all day trying to drag into some kind of order. It makes the old house look softer than it is. More forgiving. Less like a place that keeps revealing damage the deeper you dig into it.
I know better now.
So does she.
Still, she stands at the bottom of the porch steps with her notebook in one hand and the keys in the other, looking back at the house like she’s trying to leave and stay at the same time.
I give her a minute.
Rook noses at her leg, then trots down the walk and circles the truck like he’s already decided we’ve lingered long enough.
Lark exhales slowly and decides that I efficiently locked the front door.
“You check that thing three more times and it’ll file a complaint,” I say.
She turns toward me, one brow lifting. “That’s rich, coming from the man who checked the front gate, the truck, and the window boards before we left.”
“I have standards.”
“You have control issues.”
“That too.”
The corner of her mouth shifts.
There’s dust on her jeans, soot still faint at the edge of one wrist, and a line of exhaustion written through the set of her shoulders that she’s been trying to hide since about noon. I’ve been letting her get away with it because pushing too hard makes her dig in deeper.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed.
It also doesn’t mean I’m leaving it alone.
“You’re eating,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Again with the commands.”
I step around the hood of the truck and open the passenger door before she can reach for it herself. “Again with your refusal to admit you need obvious things.”
“I had crackers.”
“That was four hours ago.”
“I’m surviving.”
“That’s not the goal.”
The words leave me before I think too hard about them. Something shifts in her face. Small. Quick. There and gone before I can name it.
Then she lifts her chin, slides into the truck, and says, “You’re difficult.”
I shut the door and head around to the driver’s side.
“Yeah,” I say as I climb in. “You keep saying that like it’s new information.”
The engine turns over. Gravel crunches under the tires as I back us out of the drive, and for the first couple of minutes, neither of us says anything.
The town eases into view in pieces as we head back toward Main. Water flashing silver through the trees. Old porches catching the last of the daylight. The marina off to the right with its rows of masts and low hum of evening activity winding down.
Coral Bell Cove looks different at this hour than it does first thing in the morning. Softer, maybe. Less expectant. Like everyone has already spent the day becoming whoever they’re supposed to be and is now trying to ease back into themselves. That thought stays with me longer than it should.
I glance at Lark. She’s watching the road ahead, not me, her elbow resting near the window, fingers curved lightly against the edge of the door.
She changed after we got back from the inn this morning and never changed back—my shirt still on her, sleeves pushed to her forearms now, the faded blue making the soot on her skin stand out more clearly than it should.
I know I should stop noticing that, but I’ve never been good at listening to myself.
“We are not going somewhere fancy,” she says suddenly.
I drag my attention back to the road. “Good.”
“Because I’m dirty.”
“You’re cleaner than you were when I first hauled you away from a fire.”
She turns her head slowly. “You say that like I should be grateful.”
“I say that like you had a hose in your hand and no sense left.”
Her mouth tightens, though I catch the fight softening at the edges before it fully lands.
“That was one time.”
“That was one terrible decision.”
“That was me trying to keep my property from burning down.”
“That was you standing too close to the flames with a garden hose and determination.”
She looks back out the window.
“You make me sound unhinged.”
I take the turn onto Main and let the truck slow in front of the diner.
“You weren’t unhinged,” I say. “You were stubborn.”
That gets her attention again.
“There’s a difference.”
The neon sign in the front window flickers faintly against the deepening blue outside.
Inside, the place is warm with overhead lights, red vinyl booths, and the kind of steady traffic that belongs to a town where everyone knows exactly which table they prefer and which server will let them substitute fries for onion rings without a fight.
Lark looks from the diner to me and then back again.
“This is not a date.”
I shut off the engine.
“No?”
“No.”
I unbuckle and glance over at her.
The challenge is already in her face, but something else is tucked underneath it now. Something more cautious.
“Then it’s a miracle how much you felt the need to say that before we even got inside.”
For one second, she just looks at me.
Then she shakes her head and reaches for the handle. “You’re unbearable.”
I get out, laughing under my breath.
The evening air wraps around us cooler now, carrying the scent of salt and fryer grease and the faint sweetness from the bakery two doors down.
Rook stays behind in the truck with the windows down, who was already curled up asleep in the back seat as if he was the one who did all the work today.
Thankfully, that leaves us walking into the diner without the dog between us.
I notice the difference immediately. Lark notices it, too. I can tell by the slight adjustment in her posture, the way she curls her hands into fists for a second, then stretches her fingers back out as we step through the front door.
The place is half full.
A couple of fishermen still in caps sit at the counter.
Two older women in a booth near the windows lean over pie and gossip.
A family of four near the back, kids coloring on paper placemats.
The ceiling fans turn slowly overhead, and somewhere behind the counter, a radio plays low enough to blend into the clatter of dishes and the hiss from the kitchen.
Conversation dips when we walk in but only for a second. Then it starts again, though not without a few glances in our direction.
Small town.
Lark feels it immediately. I see the way her spine straightens, the way her expression goes a touch more composed, a touch less readable.
“Relax,” I murmur as the hostess reaches for two menus. “They’re just bored.”
Her voice stays low. “I love that for me.”
It’s my turn for a near smile. We get a booth near the windows. She slides in first. I take the other side. Menus land between us. Water follows a second later from Marlene, who has worked here since I was old enough to be bribed with grilled cheese if I sat still long enough.
“Well,” she says, looking from me to Lark and then back again. “This is new.”
I don’t even look up from the menu. “Hi, Marlene.”
Her grin widens. “You bring a pretty girl in here after dark and expect me not to have questions.”
Across from me, Lark lowers the menu just enough to watch my reaction.
“I’m not answering any of them,” I say.
Marlene sets both hands on her hips. “That wasn’t an answer either.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
She turns to Lark with the kind of easy warmth only lifelong diner servers and meddling mothers seem to possess naturally. “Ignore him. He’s a pain when he’s tired.”
Lark glances at me over the top edge of the menu, then back at Marlene. “I had that figured out pretty quickly.”
Marlene laughs.
So does Lark, softer this time, and the sound settles low in my chest in a way that should be illegal for such a simple thing.
Marlene leaves us with promises of coffee and pie later, and Lark puts the menu down.
“You know everyone.”
“Comes with living here.”
“I hate that.”
“You’ll survive.”
“That seems to be your favorite phrase.”
“No,” I say. “That’s my mother’s.”
Her gaze drops to the table, then drifts back to the menu she already set down.
I know that look now. The way certain subjects shift something in her before she can hide it. I don’t push.
Instead, I ask, “What are you getting?”
She glances back up. “Whatever doesn’t require me to make a decision.”
“That bad, huh?”
“I’ve made about three hundred decisions today. You can pick.”
I lean back against the booth and study her for a second.
The diner light is kinder than daylight. It softens the tiredness around her eyes, catches the damp shine of her lower lip where she’s worrying it lightly between her teeth. She’s watching me now, waiting to see if I’ll joke or press or pick at the edges of the request.
“I’m ordering you a burger,” I say.
She blinks. “You sound very sure.”
“You need actual food.”
“That’s not a medical diagnosis.”
“It is tonight.”
“And if I wanted pancakes.”
“Then you should’ve answered faster.”
Her mouth curves. There it is again. Small. Fleeting. Enough.
“Bossy,” she says.
“Efficient.”
“Control issues.”
“Still true.”
Marlene comes back with coffee and a notepad, and I order before Lark can change her mind—two burgers, fries, onion rings in the middle because I know Beckett’s right about one thing and life’s better when fried food is shared, and a slice of pie to-go, which gets me a sharp look from Marlene and no comment from Lark beyond the faintest shift in her expression.
Once the menus are gone, the table feels smaller. The booth does too.
There’s something about a diner that strips pretension out of a conversation before it starts. Maybe it’s the light. The coffee. The fact that no one can posture properly with a paper placemat under their elbows and ketchup two inches from their hand.
Lark wraps both hands around her mug and stares down into the coffee like it might give her instructions.
“You don’t have to stay at the farm forever,” I say after a minute.
Her eyes lift to mine.
“I know.”
“You say that every time like I’m trying to trap you.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”