LARK #4
Loretta chuckles, shaking her head. “No point in arguing with Molly Wilding,” she says, then winks at Hudson. “That’s a good lesson to learn early on.”
Hudson grins. “Noted.”
Molly claps her hands together. “Alright, you all know the drill. Set the table.”
There’s no hesitation—just movement. Because in the Wilding house, when Molly said to set the table, you hauled your ass.
Chairs scrape against the floor. Plates get pulled from cabinets. The hum of conversation fills the kitchen as hands pass glasses and silverware, as cabinets open and shut, as someone—probably Ridge—starts whistling an off-key tune.
Molly turns to Hudson, holding out a casserole dish. “You strong enough to carry this to the table?”
Hudson scoffs. “Please.”
Molly throws her head back, laughing, then gestures for him to go on. He takes it easily, marching it over like it weighs nothing.
I move toward the counter to grab the mason jars Molly uses as drinking glasses, squeezing between Sage and Boone to reach them. Just as I do, Boone reaches for them too.
Our hands touch—barely, a ghost of contact.
Then our bodies. A breath between us. No more .
I go still.
So does he.
The warmth of his skin jolts something in me, something hot and restless and completely uninvited. I pull back quickly. “Sorry.”
Boone chuckles, low and easy. “My bad.”
He grabs the glasses and I don’t miss the way his eyes flick to where my shirt has ridden up just a little.
My cheeks burn. I turn away before he can notice that, despite all the years and all the distance, he still has this stupid effect on me.
Molly wasn’t kidding about fixing my appetite.
The spread laid out before us is a feast—roast beef that’s been slow-cooked to perfection, buttery mashed potatoes topped with herbs from her garden, homemade cornbread, green beans with thick-cut bacon, a heaping dish of macaroni and cheese that’s bubbling at the edges.
A peach cobbler sits cooling by the window, promising dessert.
Molly waves a hand. “Thank Loretta. She made most of it.”
A chorus of “Thanks, Loretta” rings out.
Loretta flicks a wrist. “Oh, hush now. Dig in before it gets cold.”
The second plates start filling, the conversation picks up. The Wilding house has always been this way—food, laughter, stories layered on top of each other. It’s been so long since I’ve sat at a table like this, I almost forgot what it felt like.
I love my quiet nights with Hudson, our routine of pizza or takeout and movies on the couch, but I’d forgotten how much I loved being part of a big, boisterous family. The way voices overlap, the way someone’s always teasing someone else, the way there’s never a single dull moment.
Sage spears a piece of bacon with her fork and points it across the table. “Okay, but has Hudson heard the story of when Ridge got kicked out of the Fourth of July parade when he was fourteen?”
Hudson’s eyes light up. “You got kicked out of a parade?”
Ridge smirks. “Okay, first of all, I didn’t get kicked out. I got escorted out. Subtle but important difference.”
Boone laughs. “You got dragged out by Sheriff Tiller.”
Ridge glares at him. “Details.”
Wren laughs. “Pretty big detail.”
Sage turns to Hudson. “So picture this—the whole town is lined up along Main Street. Kids with sparklers, moms waving those little flags.”
Hudson leans in. “Okay…”
She leans forward, grinning like she’s been waiting to tell this story for years. “So, Ridge here decides the parade is moving too slow.”
Ridge points at her. “Which it was. ”
Sage ignores him. “So instead of, I don’t know, waiting like a normal person, Captain Impulse Control here whips his horse around, exits the parade route, and then—”
Wren jumps in, shaking her head. “—charges back in like a one-man cavalry, head-on into the marching band.”
Hudson’s jaw drops. “No way.”
Boone nods, smirking. “Took out the entire trombone section.”
Molly, sighing, pinches the bridge of her nose. “And nearly trampled poor Jimmy Lyles.”
Ridge, mouth twitching, shrugs. “To be fair, Jimmy should’ve been paying attention.”
Sage points her fork at him. “He was playing an instrument, Ridge.”
Hudson, barely holding it together, asks, “So what happened next?”
Wren grins. “Sheriff Tiller was not amused.”
Boone chuckles. “Dragged him off his horse in front of the entire town and made him sit on the sidewalk outside of the parade like a time-out. He ate sherbet on the curb until Dad could pick him up.”
Hudson, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, shakes his head. “Dude, you are my hero.”
Ridge, grinning, points at him. “See? Someone gets it.”
Laughter spills across the table. My chest feels warm, full.
Molly turns to me, smiling. “So, Lark, tell me—what’s new with you?”
I take a sip of my water. “Oh, you know. Just keeping The Bluebell running. Keeping Hudson alive. The usual.”
Hudson huffs. “ Gee, thanks.”
Molly chuckles. “Sounds like a full-time job.”
“Oh, it is,” I say dryly. “The kid eats like he’s training for the Olympics, and the diner never slows down. If I ever get a free second, it’s usually spent making sure I haven’t lost my mind.”
“You lost that a long time ago,” Ridge quips with a mouthful of food.
I roll my eyes with a grin, but Molly swats at him. “You hush.” Then she turns back to me, her expression softening. “But really, honey, how’s the diner doing?”
I sigh, leaning back slightly. “Busy as ever. Tourists keep us afloat in the summer, and the locals carry us through the winter. It’s a good thing I love it, otherwise, I’d probably have quit a hundred times by now.”
Molly nods knowingly. “Your Alice would be so proud.”
A lump rises in my throat, but I push past it, forcing a smile. “I like to think so.”
Sage grins. “Do you still make those super fluffy cinnamon rolls?”
I smile back. “Every morning.”
Boone leans back in his chair, amusement flickering in his eyes, the corners of his mouth pulling into a slow, dimpled grin. “Still burn ‘em?”
I shoot him a look. “I haven’t burned a single thing in years, thank you very much.”
He lifts a brow. “Sure about that?”
“Positive.”
Hudson turns to the table like he’s addressing a jury. “She burned toast before school on Monday, a frozen pizza on Wednesday, and the coffee pot—somehow—this morning.”
I gasp. “Hudson!”
The whole table erupts into laughter.
Boone shakes his head, laughing and grinning. “The coffee pot?”
Hudson nods solemnly. “It melted.”
Ridge whistles low. “Damn, Lark. That’s kind of impressive.”
I narrow my eyes at Hudson. “I’m never bringing you anywhere again.”
Molly laughs, shaking her head. “Well, I, for one, am glad to hear The Bluebell’s still going strong. ”
Loretta nods. “That place is a piece of Summit Springs. I can’t imagine the town without it.”
I smile at that. “Me neither.”
Elvis trots up beside me and plops down, his head resting against my leg like he’s already claimed me as his. Molly raises a brow. “Well, looks like you’ve got yourself a new friend.”
I glance down, scratching behind his ears. “Lucky me.”
Sage narrows her eyes at him. “Traitor.”
Elvis thumps his tail in response, completely unbothered.
I smile, shaking my head, then glance up and find Boone watching me.
He’s watching me like he’s remembering something, like he’s seeing something familiar and trying to hold onto it.
His gaze lingers, tracing over me with the kind of quiet intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
There’s something about the way he looks at me that feels like a slow unraveling, like he’s filing away every detail—the slope of my shoulders, the way my fingers drum against my glass.
The kitchen lights cast a soft glow over him, catching on the cleft in his chin, the dip in his bottom lip, the dimple threatening to appear in his cheek. His expression shifts, something caught between knowing and nostalgia, and it’s suddenly too much.
I drop my gaze, gripping my drink a little tighter, swallowing against the lump in my throat.
But I can’t help wondering if he’s thinking the same thing I am—if he remembers how we used to sit at this very table, hands hidden under the wood, fingers laced together like some secret neither of us wanted to let go of.
If he remembers staying up too late, throwing chocolate chips in each other’s mouths, trying not to laugh too hard and wake up the whole house.
As the last bites of dessert disappear and conversation starts to slow, I sink back into my chair, my stomach full, my body tired in a way that feels good. Across the table, Hudson stretches his arms over his head with a satisfied groan.
Molly shakes her head, grinning, then folds her napkin neatly on the table. “Alright, y’all know the drill.”
The room groans.
Wren and Ridge glance at each other before blurting in unison, “Not it.”
Molly raises a brow, completely unimpressed. “Nice try. You two are on dish duty. Chop chop.”
Ridge mutters something under his breath, but Wren just sighs dramatically, shaking her head like she’s just been sentenced to hard labor.
Molly turns to Sage next. “Go check on the barn before it gets too late.”
Sage groans but stands, Elvis following at her heels, his tail wagging.
Molly’s gaze lands on Hudson next, softening. “Now, I hear you’re a baseball fan.”
Hudson lifts a shoulder, playing it cool, but I catch the flicker of excitement in his eyes.
Molly nods toward the stairs. “I’ve got some of Boone’s old baseball stuff lying around somewhere. Want to come take a look?”
Hudson flicks a glance at me, like he’s checking to make sure it’s okay. I give him a small nod, and then he’s on his feet, following Molly up the stairs, doing a terrible job of masking how excited he really is.
The house moves into its usual rhythm—Wren and Ridge arguing over who’s drying and who’s washing, Loretta laughing at them from her chair, Boone standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he rinses his plate.