Chapter 4
Hoot knew from experience, there would be no more sleep after waking from the dream. Therefore, he pulled his achy body from bed and put on shorts and a tee. He’d finish his workout before the sun was fully up, then make his way to Flour Power for a robust espresso to kick-start his workday.
Hoot had long ago accepted there were two kinds of mornings. The ones that began with coffee. And the ones that required coffee to survive.
Today belonged firmly in the second category. The nightmare had left him hollow.
Even after ninety minutes in the gym—deadlifts, pull-ups, rowing until his lungs burned and his shoulders begged for mercy—the dream clung to him like wet clothes. Exercise usually cleared his head. Today it had merely dulled the edges.
Bullet’s grin kept replaying. Karma’s definitely putting that one in the plus column. Then the gunshot.
Hoot tightened his grip on the steering wheel of his truck as he rolled down Main Street in Bell Creek. He hated dreams. They were liars. They took real memories, twisted them into impossible stories, then somehow managed to leave the emotions intact.
By the time he parked outside Flour Power Bakery, he still felt like he’d lost someone… again. He hated that most of all.
The cheerful little bell jingled as he pushed through the front door. Warm air wrapped around him, scented with fresh bread, cinnamon, vanilla, and strong coffee. It smelled like comfort.
The décor looked like someone had trapped 1974 inside four walls and refused to let it leave.
Macramé plant hangers dangled from exposed beams. Bright teal tables shone, each surrounded by chairs in a rainbow of contrasting colors: teal, red, yellow, purple, and orange.
Hanging above the tables were whimsical lights, each one shaped like an orange mushroom.
The whimsy never failed to surprise him.
But the counter itself was the true statement piece. The construction consisted of numerous strips of wood, each individually painted with a distinct color from the spectrum of the rainbow, creating a visually striking piece.
It should have looked ridiculous. Instead, it somehow worked. Probably because Marilyn Lenzer somehow worked.
The owner floated out from the kitchen carrying a tray of cinnamon rolls as though she’d personally invented happiness.
He’d never seen that woman without a smile on her face.
She was the quintessential grandmother to everyone.
At well into her sixties, Marilyn still wore flowing skirts, embroidered vests, stacks of bracelets that clinked whenever she moved, and enough turquoise jewelry to stock a gift shop.
“Why does fresh coffee taste like dirt?” she asked. One of the quirks about Marilyn was that she always greeted customers with a joke. “Because it was just ground.”
He offered a conciliatory, “Good one.”
“Morning, sunshine,” she called.
Hoot looked around. “You talking to somebody behind me?” Nobody but her could ever call him that. There wasn’t a thing about him that screamed sunshine and daisies.
She laughed. “One of these days you’re going to smile before your morning espresso.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“I like a challenge.”
He shook his head. “You would.”
Marilyn disappeared behind the display case humming something that sounded suspiciously like Janis Joplin. Hoot headed for the counter.
“Rough morning?” Cammie looked up from the espresso machine.
She’d traded the jungle she’d survived years ago for flour-dusted aprons and early mornings, and somehow the bakery suited her. There was still a quiet alertness about her, the kind born from trauma, but she smiled easier these days. Especially since Jeeves had bulldozed his way into her life.
“You could say that.”
“The usual?” she asked, indicating the machine in front of her.
“Please.”
She started grinding beans. “You look like you fought a bear.”
“I would’ve preferred the bear.”
Cammie chuckled. “Nightmare?”
He looked at her. There weren’t many who knew about his nightmares. Only the men who’d been there that night truly knew. So needless to say, he was surprised this tiny slip of a woman could read him so well.
She shrugged. “You’ve got that thousand-yard stare you veterans get. And I understand trauma.”
He couldn’t argue. She’d survived a trauma that would have crushed anyone and came out stronger for it.
“Yeah.”
She didn’t press. One thing Hoot appreciated about Cammie—she understood there were questions people answered only when they were ready.
The espresso machine hissed and steam curled upward. The rich aroma filled the room. Now that smelled like salvation.
As Cammie worked, Hoot leaned against the counter, letting his thoughts drift anywhere except Afghanistan and traumas. Unfortunately, they drifted to another woman entirely. The one stranded on the island.
He still couldn’t believe she’d managed to lose her boat. Or practically drown him in Bell Creek. He glanced down at the pants he wore today. Thankfully, they were dry. Unlike the pair he’d worn that evening.
He’d spent two miserable hours sitting in damp denim at Hooch & Harmony while Flint, Voodoo, Jeeves, and the rest of the Condor’s Overwatch crew laughed themselves stupid.
It hadn’t been as uncomfortable as Hell Week where he’d been constantly wet from head to toe.
The absence of sand had made it at least slightly more bearable.
“She sank you?”
“Didn’t sink the boat,” Hoot had corrected.
“No,” Voodoo had wheezed. “Just you. A SEAL.” That had been the most amusing part for them. The fact that the Navy SEAL had been dunked… by a woman.
Even Flint had smiled. “How exactly does a grown man fall into a river rescuing a stranded artist?”
“Gravity.”
“Sure.” Jeeves had nearly choked on his beer.
“Tell us about her again.”
“There isn’t much to tell.”
“Except?”
“She talked a lot.”
“Everybody talks a lot compared to you,” Voodoo had teased.
“Anything else?”
Hoot had thought about it. “She reminds me of Marilyn.” That had earned complete silence. “A younger Marilyn,” he’d clarified. “Artsy with a bit of snark.”
Yet, to Hoot she seemed like the kind of person who would apologize for existing.
The insecurity was easy to read. What wasn’t was what was hidden underneath.
Something stronger that even she hadn’t discovered yet.
He’d spent maybe thirty minutes with the woman, so the thought took him by surprise.
He was used to being able to read people at a glance, but his reading of her came out of left field.
“Hoot?” Cammie slid a to-go cup across the counter. “There you go.”
He picked it up reverently. The espresso smelled like heaven itself. He took one careful sip. Perfect.
“You’re a miracle worker.”
“I’ll accept that compliment.”
He nodded toward the espresso machine. “You should. If Jeeves hadn’t already claimed you, I’d ask you to marry me.”
Cup in hand, he turned toward the front door, Cammie’s laughter following him. The bell jingled. The door swung inward. And someone walked directly into him. The cup lurched.
“Oh,” a feminine voice called out as dark espresso launched into the air. It landed with remarkable accuracy across his shirt, pants, and one shoe. Thank goodness he’d left his suit jacket in the truck, or that would have been soiled as well.
He closed his eyes. Of course. Just what his day needed. And it wasn’t even oh-eight hundred.
“Oh no,” the female voice was suddenly very familiar. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Hoot opened one eye. The woman from the island stared at him in horror.
Her shoulder-length auburn hair escaped a messy knot, and today she wore paint-speckled overalls over a soft green T-shirt.
A canvas messenger bag hung across her body, several pencils sticking out of one pocket.
She looked exactly like someone who accidentally stranded herself on an island.
“Oh my gosh.” She grabbed a stack of napkins from a nearby table. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“I noticed.”
She winced. “I deserve that.”
She began blotting espresso from the front of his shirt before realizing her hands were heading somewhere dangerous. “Oh.” She immediately stepped back.
“Personal space.”
“Right. Sorry,” she said… again. He was beginning to think apologizing was her primary form of communication. “I’ll buy you another one cup.”
“It’s fine.”
“And I’ll pay to have your clothes cleaned.”
“They’re washable.”
“I still feel awful.”
“I’m sure you do.”
She sighed. “You really don’t smile much, do you?”
“No.”
“I was hoping maybe you’d started.”
“Nope.”
“Still grumpy,” she muttered under her breath.
“Still irresponsible,” he shot back.
She blinked and the smile in her eyes died a little. He suddenly felt like a complete dick.
He was about to offer his own apology for his snarky words when Marilyn appeared. “Sweetheart.” The older woman wrapped her in an enthusiastic hug. “There you are. You didn’t tell me you were coming this morning.”
“I finished organizing the studio space.”
Marilyn beamed. “Wonderful.” But then her brow furrowed in concern. “Did you stay up all night again?”
Lark shrugged. He then noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes. Eyes that were a mysterious shade of green-gray. How had he missed those the first time they’d met? Yet, the fatigue in them was easy to read, and his guilt from his harsh words resurfaced.
Marilyn turned toward Hoot. “You’ve met my niece.”
Hoot’s eyes darted back and forth between the two women, his surprise mounting as he realized his initial observation about Lark’s resemblance to Marilyn had been remarkably accurate. “Niece?”
Lark nodded sheepishly. “I moved here a couple weeks ago to be closer to her.”
“So you’re the mysterious niece,” Cammie said brightly as she came around the counter. “Marilyn’s been talking about you forever.”
Lark laughed. “Hopefully only good things.”
“The best things.”
Within thirty seconds the two women chatted as though they’d been friends since kindergarten.
Artists. Hoot decided that explained everything. They spoke an entirely different language. Cammie offered to remake his espresso, and they all followed her to the counter. She and Lark continued talking as she worked. Half of it went over his head.
“...and this is my niece, Lark Meadows,” Marilyn was saying again, as though introducing her properly mattered.
Hoot looked at Lark. Then snorted. He couldn’t help it.
She turned. “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
He took another look at her. She tilted her head curiously. Like a bird. Of course. “Lark.”
“What about it?”
“It’s fitting.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I can’t decide if that was a compliment.”
“You remind me of one.”
“A bird?”
He nodded. “You move like one.”
She folded her arms. “I don’t know whether to be offended or not.”
“I’m not sure either.” To his surprise, she laughed. A genuine laugh.
“Well... I suppose that’s better than being compared to a pigeon.”
“I wasn’t thinking pigeon.”
“What were you thinking?”
He considered answering. Then decided against it.
Instead, he picked up the replacement espresso Cammie had silently prepared and took a sip. Still perfect.
Lark watched him over the rim of her own coffee. For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. She seemed every bit as scattered as she had on the island. Creative. Snarky. A walking magnet for bad luck. Easy to dismiss.
Cammie drew her back into conversation, and he found himself watching her.
She talked with her hands. Her expression changed every few seconds.
When she laughed, she did it wholeheartedly.
When someone complimented her Liberty Bell installation, she ducked her head as though embarrassed by the praise.
Interesting. Most people projected exactly what they wanted others to see. Confidence. Humor. Competence.
Years in the Teams had taught Hoot to ignore the performance and watch the details instead. Microexpressions. Hesitations. The way someone held themselves when they thought no one was looking.
The woman standing in front of him wasn’t careless.
She wasn’t shallow. Lark smiled often. But uncertainty lingered behind nearly every smile.
She apologized too quickly, deflected compliments, even checked people’s reactions before finishing a sentence like she expected to disappoint them.
That wasn’t flightiness. That was someone accustomed to being underestimated.
But Hoot had spent a career reading people whose lives depended on what they hid beneath the surface.
And she certainly wasn’t as fragile as she pretended to be.
There was something underneath all the apologies and nervous chatter.
Something resilient. Something that had survived enough to make insecurity feel safer than confidence.
He didn’t know why that caught his attention. He only knew that, despite every intention of forgetting about the crazy artist he’d fished out of Bell Creek, he suddenly wasn’t so sure that was going to be possible.