Chapter 36
By the time Hoot and Lark arrived at the Meadows’ Georgetown house, he’d already decided he disliked the place.
It wasn’t the house itself. The sprawling brick townhome was beautiful, if a little too polished for his taste.
Every window gleamed. Every shrub looked professionally groomed.
Even the damn front steps seemed to have been scrubbed into submission.
It was the people.
They’d barely crossed the threshold before Lark’s mother descended on them. “Lark, you’re late.”
“We’re fifteen minutes early.”
Her mother smiled without warmth. “Yes, but everyone else has already arrived.”
Then Hildi’s attention turned to him, her gaze dropping almost immediately to the tattoos visible beneath the sleeves of Hoot’s shirt. Her eyes lingered on the ink winding across his forearms before slowly traveling back up to his face. The disapproval was immediate—and barely concealed.
“So,” she said, offering her hand with all the enthusiasm of someone accepting a package she hadn’t ordered. “You’re Cormac,” she said, her eyes making another pointed sweep over his tattoos. “You’re the man Lark has been seeing.”
There was nothing welcoming in her tone. Hoot kept his expression neutral. “Ma’am.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I see.” He had a feeling she didn’t see anything she particularly liked. Then she turned her condescending glare to her daughter. “I hope you’re not rushing into this relationship simply because you’re trying to prove a point.”
“I have no point to prove, Mother,” Lark replied.
The change in her voice was subtle, but Hoot caught it immediately.
The warmth he’d come to associate with Lark vanished, replaced by a cool, measured tone that sounded almost rehearsed.
Her words became more precise, her cadence flatter, every syllable carefully controlled.
He’d seen that kind of transformation before, only usually in the field when someone was preparing for a battle. Except Lark wasn’t preparing to fight. She was preparing to survive.
It was as if stepping into the Meadows required her to change everything about herself—not just the way she dressed or stood, but even the sound of her voice.
The real Lark, the woman who laughed easily and teased him mercilessly, disappeared behind a polished version her family might find acceptable.
Hoot hated watching it happen. And he hated even more knowing she’d apparently been doing it for years.
Hoot glanced at his watch. That was apparently how this family worked. Lark introduced him to one relative after another, and Hoot quickly learned there were several different varieties of Meadows.
There were the ones who looked him up and down like he was a questionable purchase. The ones who asked about his military career with carefully concealed curiosity. And the ones who smiled at him while clearly wondering how long this particular relationship was going to last.
He could handle being judged. What he couldn’t handle was watching them judge Lark.
“Your hair is a little wild,” her mother remarked at one point.
Lark’s hand instinctively went to the ends of her hair. “I didn’t realize it was a problem.”
“It isn’t a problem. It’s simply... casual.”
Hoot saw the flash of hurt cross Lark’s face. He wanted to tell her mother exactly what he thought about that. Instead, he put a hand at the small of Lark’s back. “She looks great.”
Her mother looked at him. The smile tightened. “I’m sure you think so.”
Oh, I definitely do. He kept that one to himself.
Lark’s brother, Alex, arrived with the unmistakable confidence of a man who had never been told no and had never considered that he might deserve it.
He barely acknowledged Hoot before giving him a slow, assessing look, as though deciding whether he was worthy of standing in the same room.
Then his attention shifted to Lark, and the condescension in his expression sharpened.
“Still playing with that little art business?” Alex asked, as if her career were an amusing childhood phase she’d stubbornly refused to outgrow.
Hoot’s jaw tightened. Lark’s smile was painfully polite. “It’s doing quite well, actually.”
Alex shrugged. “I’m sure. You’ve always been content playing with your little art projects while the rest of us were busy building lives that actually mattered.”
Hoot felt his temper spike. He’d met plenty of arrogant men during his years in the military. Alex Meadows somehow managed to make most of them seem humble.
When Bradley Whitmore arrived dressed to the nines, things didn’t improve. Hoot knew him immediately. He’d seen the man in photographs. Had heard enough about him to recognize the particular brand of entitlement rolling off him.
Bradley’s gaze landed on Lark. Then shifted to Hoot. For several seconds, the two men simply stared at one another. Hoot didn’t blink. Bradley smiled. It wasn’t friendly.
“So you’re Cormac Shibley.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” Hoot couldn’t help wondering what Bradley had actually heard about him.
Had Calloway been the one to provide the information?
If so, exactly what had the man shared—and how much had he left out?
More importantly, how well did the Whitmores really know Grant Calloway?
The questions nagged at Hoot, because if Calloway was connected to Whitmore Global Holdings, there was a damn good chance Bradley knew far more about Hoot, Lark, and the investigation than he was letting on.
“I’m sure.”
Lark stepped between them before the testosterone could turn the foyer into a battlefield. “Why don’t we go upstairs and get ready?”
Hoot followed willingly. Anything was better than another thirty seconds with her family.
Lark’s bedroom surprised him. He’d expected something polished and impersonal, another carefully curated room designed to impress people. Instead, it felt like her.
The walls were a soft, warm color, and sunlight poured through tall windows overlooking Georgetown.
Books filled two shelves, stacked in neat rows and haphazard piles.
Sketches and photographs were tucked into frames and scattered across a small desk.
A collection of little objects—stones, bits of pottery, seashells, pieces of metal—occupied a shelf like tiny reminders of places she’d been.
There was art everywhere. Not expensive-looking art. Interesting art. Pieces that felt alive. Hoot walked slowly through the room, taking it in. “I’m surprised your family allowed you to keep all this.”
Lark looked over her shoulder while opening her closet. “Some of it. They allowed me this bit of sanctuary.”
He picked up a small clay figure from the dresser. “You made this?”
“Years ago.”
He studied it. “It looks like you.”
She glanced at him. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Yeah.”
Her smile softened. “It is.”
Hoot set the figure down carefully. There was something about seeing this side of her that made his chest tighten. This was Lark rebelling from the Meadows. The Lark before the Whitmores. Before Bradley. Before all the expectations.
This was the woman she’d built underneath everything they’d tried to make her become. And he liked her even more for it.
Eventually, she disappeared into the bathroom to change. Hoot checked his watch. Then his comm. He slipped the earpiece into place and activated it. “Overwatch, Hoot.”
Flint’s voice came through almost immediately. “Go.”
Hoot lowered his voice. “Give me the rundown.”
“Outer perimeter is covered,” Flint said. “Voodoo and Jeeves have the street. Eggs is monitoring the rear access and neighboring properties.”
“Halestorm?” he asked, using Haley’s online persona name.
“Inside the house’s network.”
A pause. Then Haley’s voice came through. “I’ve got cameras and guest traffic. Nothing suspicious yet.”
“Yet,” Hoot repeated.
“That word is important,” she snarked in typical Haley fashion. Hoot almost smiled. “What are we looking for?” she asked.
“Calloway,” Flint answered. “PSG personnel. Any of the shell companies tied to the manifests. And anything connecting Whitmore Global Holdings to the shipments.”
“I’ve got the shipping data running through SIBYL now. If anything at this party matches the manifests, it’ll flag it.”
“Good. When the party is in full swing, I’ll slip into the server room and get Haley access,” Flint reported.
“Got it.” Hoot glanced toward the bathroom door. His voice dropped. “And Lark?”
A brief silence. Flint understood the question. “She stays with you.”
“Wasn’t planning on letting her out of my sight.”
“Good. But don’t make it obvious.”
Hoot frowned. “She’s my date.”
“Exactly. You’re supposed to be distracted.”
Voodoo’s voice crackled through the comm. “Something tells me Hoot won’t have to pretend.”
“Voodoo.”
“Just saying.”
Hoot ignored him. Flint continued. “If there’s trouble, priority is Lark. We collect evidence only if it’s safe. No heroics.”
Hoot almost laughed at the irony. “Understood.”
The bathroom door opened. He turned. And forgot every damn thing he’d been about to say.
He’d seen her in jeans, wet clothes, borrowed clothes, half-asleep in his bed. He’d seen her exhausted, frightened, furious, and laughing so hard she’d nearly snorted coffee.
None of it prepared him for this.
The dress was deep emerald, the kind of color that made her eyes look brighter.
It skimmed her curves without hiding them, falling just below her knees with a subtle slit that flashed a glimpse of leg when she moved.
The neckline was elegant, showing off the graceful line of her collarbones and shoulders.
Her hair was loose, thick waves cascading over her shoulders and down her back. A pair of delicate gold earrings caught the light when she turned her head, and a simple bracelet circled her wrist.
Her makeup was understated. Softly lined eyes. A hint of blush. Rose-colored lips.
She looked beautiful. No. Beautiful wasn’t enough.
She looked like the kind of woman a man could spend the rest of his life discovering.
Lark stood in the doorway, ready for the party. Hoot stared. His comm crackled. “Hoot?” Flint asked.
He reached up and switched the channel off after muttering, “Later.” Then realized he’d been staring when one corner of her mouth lifted.
“Are you going to say something?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m thinking.”
“About?”
He walked toward her, his gaze making another slow pass over her. “That your mother is going to hate the dress.”
Lark’s eyes widened.
“What?”
“She’ll find something wrong with it.”
A laugh escaped her. “You think?”
“Definitely.” He stopped in front of her and gently brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “But she’d be wrong.”
Her expression softened. “What do you think?”
Hoot’s thumb traced her cheek. “I think you look incredible.”
She smiled. “Just incredible?”
His mouth curved. “I’m trying to behave.” Her cheeks warmed. Hoot leaned closer. “Trust me, little bird. You don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now.”
She laughed softly. And Hoot knew he’d willingly walk into any Whitmore family disaster imaginable if it meant getting to stand beside her looking like this.