Chapter Eleven – Lark
The kiss follows me back to Holt’s home.
In the silence of the truck ride back to the farm while Holt keeps both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road like the line between us can be undone with enough discipline.
In the way my mouth still feels warm long after the moment itself has passed, as if memory can live in the skin longer than reason should allow.
In the way I step out of the truck and have to actively stop myself from looking at him first.
The farm stretches around us in the late evening light, wide and golden and almost offensively peaceful after the kind of day we just had.
A breeze moves through the grass, bending it in long, soft waves.
Instead of veering toward the dirt road leading to his house, he stays on the gravel drive until a gorgeous ranch comes into view.
A barn sits off to the left, doors half open.
The house glows warm through the windows.
Nothing about the place looks complicated.
Rook hops down from the back seat and does one quick circle around my legs before trotting toward the porch as if he’s been born to this land and not dragged into it half starved and suspicious three days ago.
I stand beside the truck for a second longer than necessary, my hand still on the handle. Holt shuts his door. The sound lands heavier than it should be.
Neither of us speaks. We both hear the screen door open before either of us can decide whether that silence is a relief or a problem.
A young woman steps out first. I know she has to be his sister before I even fully register her face because she moves with the same uncontained, unapologetic energy Holt has tucked away under control.
It’s there in the swing of her arms, the quickness of her stride, the way she takes up space like she’s never once considered making herself smaller.
Behind her, Claire appears in the doorway, followed by three other women, one looking eerily familiar, lingering just over her shoulder.
For one absurd second, all I can think is that this feels less like arriving home and more like walking into an ambush orchestrated by women who absolutely know better and do it anyway.
The petite brunette beams the second she sees me.
“There she is.”
I blink until understanding dawns.
“Hi,” I say, which is not my most impressive contribution to the moment.
She takes the steps two at a time and heads straight for me like we’re already mid-conversation instead of barely acquainted. She stops just close enough to look me over, her gaze quick and bright and far more affectionate than I’m prepared for.
“I’m Hadley, Holt’s twin, and you look tired,” she says matter-of-factly. “And kind of smoky.”
I glance at Holt. He’s watching this unfold with an expression I can’t quite read. Something between resignation and amusement, like he knows exactly how this goes and has decided resistance would be useless.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Hadley makes a face. “That phrase should be illegal.” One of the women laughs softly behind her. “That’s my sister, Lila, and sister-in-law, Ivy.”
That’s why I recognized her. Ivy Quinn is a worldwide superstar. I’d heard she settled in a small town along the East Coast when she met her husband.
Lila crosses her arms and leans one shoulder against the doorframe. “It’s the family motto for everyone who absolutely is not.”
Ivy tips her head, studying me with those calm, observant eyes that miss more than they let on. “We could print it on a throw pillow.”
“That sounds aggressive,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words slip out dry enough to catch Bailey off guard into a short, surprised laugh.
Hadley grins wider. “You’re going to fit in here beautifully.”
That docks somewhere under my ribs, warm and uncomfortable and far too easy to want.
Claire saves me from having to respond.
“Inside,” she says, clapping her hands once. “You can all stand out there and stare at each other tomorrow. Dinner’s getting cold.”
I barely have time to linger as I’m escorted inside by Hadley.
Family photos hang on every available space in the foyer and hall.
The expansive kitchen feels smaller with all of them in it, but not in a crowded way.
In a lived-in one. The table has been extended.
Extra plates are already set out. Something savory and rich hangs in the air, mixing with butter and herbs and the faint sweetness of cornbread cooling on a rack by the stove.
Claire moves through the room like a conductor with no need to raise her voice to keep the orchestra in line.
Bailey sets a bowl on the table. Lila reaches up to grab glasses from the cabinet without asking where they are.
Ivy slides into motion near the sink, filling a pitcher with water while Hadley pulls me down into the chair beside her before I can decide where I belong.
Holt ends up across from me, not casting a single glance in my direction.
That might make it worse. But I’m aware of him anyway.
Of the soot that still clings faintly along one edge of his neck.
Of the way his forearms bracket his plate when he sits.
Of the fact that I know exactly what his mouth felt like less than two hours ago, and now I’m supposed to pretend I don’t.
That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. Because not looking doesn’t mean not noticing.
I feel it anyway—subtle, quiet, constant. The way his attention tracks without ever settling long enough for anyone else to call it out. The way his focus shifts when I speak, even if his eyes don’t.
And when I finally risk a glance, just once, he’s already looking. Not long enough for anyone else to catch it. But enough to feel like a swift kick against my breastbone, like I’ve stepped into something I don’t fully understand yet.
This is impossible.
Ivy sits to Holt’s right. Bailey takes the chair beside Lila. Claire remains standing long enough to make sure everyone has food before finally lowering herself into the remaining seat with the sort of satisfaction that belongs to women who believe they’ve solved a problem simply by feeding it.
Maybe they’re right.
Conversation begins around me before I fully step into it.
Holt immediately asks where the rest of the family was.
(At the movies with his niece and nephew).
Bailey asks about the inn first. Practical, direct, and kind enough to leave me room to answer without turning it into something bigger than I can hold.
“Better than yesterday,” I say, cutting into chicken that tastes so much better than anything I’ve eaten in the last forty-eight hours that it almost feels cruel. “Worse than last week. About where I expected, if I’m being honest.”
“That’s a very contractor answer,” Bailey says.
“It’s a survival answer,” Lila counters.
Hadley nudges my elbow with hers. “Same thing, depending on the week.”
I look down at my plate for a second, then at the women around the table and the easy, lived-in way they talk over and around each other without any sharpness.
There’s affection here, but not the overly polished kind.
Something rougher around the edges. Earned.
Honest enough that no one seems worried about looking graceful inside it.
It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t appreciate.
“So,” Hadley says, not even pretending subtlety. “How terrible was my brother to work with today?”
Holt finally looks at me then. Straight on. The weight of his attention settles over my skin before I can stop it.
“Depends which part of the day you mean,” I say, because apparently I’ve already chosen the kind of danger I’m willing to entertain.
A slow grin pulls at one side of Hadley’s mouth. “Oh, good. There were parts.”
“Hads,” Holt says, his voice carrying just enough warning to make it useless.
She ignores him completely. “Did he get all bossy and weirdly competent?”
Lila snorts. Bailey looks down into her plate to hide a smile. Ivy doesn’t bother.
I glance at Holt, then back at Hadley. “That is… a wildly accurate description.”
The table breaks into laughter. Holt drags a hand over his jaw and leans back in his chair with the expression of a man who knows he’s outnumbered and has no real plan to recover.
“That’s enough from all of you.”
“No,” Hadley says cheerfully. “It absolutely is not.”
Claire reaches for the bread basket and passes it my way like the conversation happening around it isn’t exactly what she wanted all along. I take a piece and try not to smile, but fail miserably.
Later, when the dishes are half done and Bailey and Lila are arguing softly over whether Claire should let them help more, Hadley corners me by the back door while Ivy stands outside the mudroom with Rook, letting him sniff the hem of her jeans.
“You’re coming with me tomorrow,” Hadley says.
I blink. “That sounded a lot like a command.”
“It is.”
“To where?”
She smiles slowly, the kind of smile that says trouble is probably involved. “The bookstore. Bailey’s opening late, Ivy wants coffee, Lila promised to bring pastries, and I’ve decided you don’t get to spend every spare second at the inn until you forget how to be a person.”
I should say no. Instead, I ask, “Will there be coffee before or after I’m kidnapped?”
“Both,” Bailey calls from the sink without turning around.
That earns me another laugh I didn’t know I had in me tonight.
“Fine,” I say.
Hadley throws both hands up in victory. “See? Easy.”
Nothing about this feels easy. Still, I don’t take it back.
Holt works a shift the following morning, so it will be good to put some distance between us.
And Nolan, who I still haven’t fully figured out, though I know there’s something he’s not saying.
Not an ulterior motive exactly. More like a worry he’s carrying too tightly and refusing to hand over.
Which might be worse, because Nolan has always had a habit of protecting people by standing directly in their way.