Chapter Thirteen – Lark
I don’t look at him when we walk back from the barn. That’s the first decision I make. A necessary one. The kind of choice that feels small until it’s the only thing holding everything else in place.
There is stillness in the house when we step inside, the warmth of it pressing in around us after the cool night air, carrying the faint scent of Holt.
He moves past me toward the sink, and I head down the hall. No good night. No lingering. No chance for either of us to pretend we don’t know exactly what would happen if we stayed in the same room too long.
My door closes behind me with a soft click, sounding louder than it should. I lean back against it for a second. My pulse is still too fast. My mouth still feels like his. My body—
I push away from the thought before it can finish.
“This is temporary,” I say quietly into the empty room. I just need to get the inn to a place where the inspector will approve me residing there again.
The words don’t land the way they did before. They feel like something I’m trying to convince myself of.
Rook watches me from the bed, unimpressed.
“Not helpful,” I mutter.
He thumps his tail once and drops his head back down like he’s decided I’ll figure it out eventually or not at all.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. It doesn’t come at all for a long time.
Morning hits harder.
I move through it on instinct—shower, clothes, coffee—keeping everything efficient so I don’t have to think too much about last night, about the way Holt stepped back instead of forward, about the fact that I didn’t want him to.
That part is the problem, the fact that I wanted it to keep going. That I would have let it.
I grab my keys before that thought can settle any deeper and head out. Holt’s truck is gone because I’m the last thing he should be thinking about while he’s working. He has enough on his plate. Which means:
Risk.
Absence.
Uncertainty.
I don’t like that. And I especially don’t like that I care.
There’s a mug left by the sink I don’t remember setting out. Darker coffee ring along the inside. Still faintly warm if I let myself check. He must’ve left it there on his way out.
The detail shouldn’t matter, but it does. Because it means he was here—moving through the same space—thinking about something else entirely while I was still upstairs trying not to think about him.
I rinse it before I can stop myself, set it beside the others like it doesn’t belong to something different, then head out of the house as quickly as my feet can carry me. I need something to keep my mind occupied.
The inn is quiet when I arrive. Dust hangs in the air, catching in the morning light as it did yesterday, but there’s something else now, too—a sense of progress layered beneath the damage, like the place is starting to remember what it used to be.
I set my bag down, already reaching for the notebook in my hand, mentally running through what needs to get done, then I stop.
There’s a coffee sitting on the counter.
Not just any coffee but one with my name scribbled along the plastic.
The exact order I’ve only mentioned once.
Half distracted. Not expecting anyone to remember.
I cross the room slowly, like it might disappear if I move too fast. It’s still warm when I pick it up. No note. No explanation. No one waiting to take credit.
Heat curls low beneath my ribs anyway, sharp enough to steal my breath for a second.
Because I know this was Holt. I can feel it in the restless flutter moving through me, my body recognizing his care before I even let myself process it.
Nolan is already there. Again. I don’t comment on it this time.
“Morning,” he says without looking up from the plans spread across the front table.
“Morning.”
I set my bag down and move into the space, pretending I haven’t spent the past twelve hours trying not to think about someone else entirely.
“What’s first?” I ask.
“Subfloor in the back hall,” he says. “Then we can start mapping electrical.”
I nod.
Work helps. It always does. We fall into it quickly, moving through the space in a rhythm that should feel familiar and easy. It doesn’t. Not the way it used to.
Nolan explains something about load-bearing support. I miss half of it. My brain keeps slipping back to the barn, back to the kitchen, back to the way Holt looked at me when he said he wasn’t going to pretend anymore.
“You’re not listening,” Nolan says.
I blink, trying to refocus.
“I am.”
“You’re not.” His tone isn’t cruel. If anything, that makes it worse. It’s the same tone he used after my father died, when everyone else spoke to me like I was breakable and Nolan acted like if he stayed practical enough, I might not fall apart.
“Repeat it,” I say.
He studies me for a second, longer than necessary, then does. No lecture. No smugness. Just the information again, slower this time.
I follow this time because, as I keep reminding myself, this is why I’m here. Not—whatever else is trying to take up space in my head.
By midday, the air inside the inn is thick again. I push my hair back and step away from the wall, wiping my hands on my jeans.
“We’re making progress,” Nolan says.
“We are.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I am.”
“Then why do you look like you’re somewhere else?”
There it is again. That sharp observation. That way he notices things I don’t always want noticed.
“I’m here,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I turn toward him, fully this time.
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
The words feel like a slap because I don’t know which truth he’s asking for. There are too many now.
“I’m tired,” I say finally.
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole answer. Nolan watches me for a second longer.
Then nods.
“Take a break.”
I hesitate, then step outside, hoping the salty spray from the bay works its magic.
I walk a few steps away from the house, stopping near the edge of the property where the grass gives way to sand and the faint line of water beyond.
I pull my phone out without thinking. The only messages are from my mother and ex. Both telling me to grow up and come home, and that they’d take over the project.
But nothing from the person I’m really waiting on. The realization lands like a slow drop in my stomach, heavier than it should be. I shove the phone back into my pocket.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
Rook would agree if he were here, but he’s back at Holt’s house enjoying his new dog bed.
Instead, I’m alone with the quiet and the steady sound of waves breaking in the distance and the realization that I’m thinking about Holt in the middle of a workday like it’s something I can’t shut off. Which is dangerous.
My phone rings. The sound cuts through everything swirling in my mind.
Unknown number.
My stomach drops as I answer before I can think better of it.
“Hello?”
“Lark?”
The male voice is unfamiliar, but strong in that official sort of way. My grip tightens on the phone.
“Yes.”
“This is Captain Mac with Coral Bell Cove Fire Department.”
Everything in me goes still all at once.
“What happened?”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says quickly. “He’s fine.”
Holt.
My knees almost give, and I brace a hand against the side of the inn.
“What—what do you mean fine?”
“There was a call. Minor structure fire. He took a hit to the ribs, but he’s already cleared. He asked me to let you know in case someone mentioned it before he could.”
The words buzz as he continues. The world around me grows fuzzy until Mac repeats that Holt’s fine.
He’s fine.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice quieter now.
“Of course.”
The line clicks dead, and I lower the phone slowly. My heart is still racing. My hands aren’t steady as I shove my phone into my back pocket. And the worst part—the part I can’t ignore anymore—is how immediate that fear was. How fast it hit. How deep it went.
I close my eyes, just for a second, then open them again. And everything feels different.
I don’t stay long after that, telling Nolan I need to head back early. He doesn’t argue, which is something new for him. He just nods once, his gaze sharper than before, and reminds me that his crew will be arriving next week.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his gaze drops to my hands, then lifts again. But he doesn’t push, and that’s new for him. Or maybe not new. Maybe he’s always known when pushing would only make me bleed harder.
“Go,” he says.
I frown. “What?”
“Whatever just happened, you’re already halfway out the door.” He picks up his pencil again, but his voice stays quieter. “I’ll lock up.”
Suspicion prickles beneath my relief. “You’re suddenly fine with me leaving?”
His mouth tightens. “I was never trying to keep you here, Lark.”
That lands strangely.
Like maybe I’ve been hearing “control” when he meant “concern.”
Or maybe that’s exactly what he wants me to think.
Holt’s truck is already back at the farm when I pull in, which is unexpected. But I assume with the injury, his captain sent him home for the remainder of his shift.
Relief hits fast, and I don’t slow down when I get out of the car. Don’t give myself time to think.
I head straight for the house, push the door open… and stop.
He’s there in the kitchen. One hand braced on the counter, the other wrapped around his waist as he cradled himself, the material of his shirt pulled tight against his bicep.
He looks up, sees me, and something in his expression shifts immediately.
“You’re home early,” he says.
I cross the room before he finishes the sentence.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m okay.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
I don’t stop until I’m right in front of him. My hand lifts without permission and stops just short of his rib cage .
“Let me see.”
“I said I’m good.”
“I don’t care what you said.”
The words come out sharper than I intend. Holt stills, and his eyes search mine, all while something between us shifts.
“You’re worried,” he says.
It’s not a question. I swallow.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what.”
“Turn this into something it’s not.”
His gaze doesn’t move.
“Then tell me what it is.”
I don’t answer. I can’t because the truth is sitting too close to the surface now. Too clear. Too impossible to pretend away.
My fingers finally make contact with his side. Light. Careful. He inhales sharply. The reaction hits me before I can process it. Before I can pull back.
“You’re not fine,” I say.
“Didn’t say I wasn’t sore.”
“You said—”
“I said what you needed to hear.”
My hand tightens slightly as his breath shifts again. And suddenly… we’re back here. Too close. Too aware. Too much sitting under the surface.
“You scared me,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words hang there. Heavy and honest. Irreversible. Holt goes still. Completely.
And then, everything changes.