Chapter 9LARK
LARK
The door swings open with zero warning—because, of course, Miller doesn’t knock—and slams against the wall with a dramatic thunk .
“You need a bigger office, bitch,” she announces, stepping inside like she owns the place.
I barely glance up from my desk. “Nice to see you, too.”
Miller kicks the door shut behind her, shrugging out of her blazer like she’s been through battle.
She’s all sharp lines and confidence, her dark hair styled neatly, falling right to her shoulders and a perfectly tailored pair of slacks hugging her legs.
Her heels could probably kill a man, which, given her profession, feels like an advantage.
She eyes the lemon bars I set aside for her because I know they’re her favorite, then plucks one off the napkin and takes a bite, groaning dramatically. “Okay, fine. Maybe you deserve a bigger office.”
“Glad we’re negotiating.”
She flops into the chair across from me, crossing her legs. “So. How was dinner with Booney baby?”
I roll my eyes so hard my vision nearly blurs. “It was fine.”
Miller licks powdered sugar off her thumb, watching me like a hawk. “ And?”
“And what?”
She arches a brow. “Did you two have a steamy, tear-filled reunion? Rip each other’s clothes off? At least a little over-the-shirt action? Come on, give me something.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Miller shrugs, completely unfazed. “What? He’s your baby daddy.” She holds up a finger like she’s making a closing argument. “And, if I had to guess, still hopelessly in love with you.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, okay.”
She waves me off, licking a stray crumb from her finger. “Denial looks good on you. Anyway, I’ve only got a half hour, so let’s cut the foreplay and get to it.”
I roll my eyes with a grin as she reaches into her bag and pulls out the manila folders I gave her a few days ago, dropping them onto my desk with a decisive thud.
Miller flips open the top folder, scanning the first page like she’s memorized it. “Alright. So I did some digging into these companies Tate claims he’s working with.”
I tilt my head. “Digging?”
Miller’s lips curve. “Come on, Lark. You know me. I don’t just Google things. I investigate. Pull some strings, make some calls.” She taps her manicured nails against the page. “On the surface, these companies look fine. Great, even. Strong financials, good PR, no glaring red flags.”
I exhale. “Okay…”
She lifts a single finger. “ However .”
“Of course there’s a however .”
“You’re welcome. I started looking at the real transactions. Not just the glossy reports Tate handed you, but the filings that don’t get front-page treatment.”
I frown. “Like?”
Miller slides a document toward me and taps a paragraph with a red-painted nail.
“For starters, one of the investment firms involved—Atlas Holdings—has been flagged in multiple states for financial discrepancies. Inflating property values, underreporting tax liabilities, sketchy development deals where the numbers just…don’t add up. ”
My stomach tightens. “Are we talking gray area illegal or definitely-going-to-jail illegal?”
“If I were wearing my official lawyer hat, I’d say gray area . If I were wearing my I know how this shit goes hat, I’d say they’re playing real fast and loose with some laws. And the second someone looks too closely, it’s all going to come crashing down.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “So if I sell to Tate and he’s using them to back his deal—”
Miller nods. “Your name could get tangled up in their mess. Maybe not legally, but publicly? If something blows up, your diner could end up part of some big fraud investigation.”
I stare at the paper in front of me, my pulse drumming in my ears. “Jesus.”
Miller leans back, crossing her arms. “You could still sell. But if I were you, I’d make damn sure you knew exactly where the money’s coming from before you sign anything.”
My fingers tighten around the edges of the folder. I knew something felt off about Tate, but this? This is a whole new level of wrong.
I drag a hand over my face. “Tate’s coming by in an hour. He wants to talk about what I’m gonna do.”
Miller raises an eyebrow, reaching for her lemon bar. “Oh, that should be fun. Give him a swift kick to the balls for me.”
I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah. I’ll do that.” I press my palms against the desk, staring at the paperwork like it might suddenly rearrange itself into something that makes sense. “I can’t sell to him now, can I?”
Miller chews thoughtfully, then swallows. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I huff out a breath, leaning back in my chair. “What if I bring this up to him and he just smooths it over with more bullshit?” My jaw tightens. “That man could sell ice to a damn glacier.”
“Then you’re gonna have to make him work a hell of a lot harder than that, aren’t you? ”
My stomach twists. It’s easy to sit here and talk about Tate and his shady dealings, but it’s a lot harder to ignore what I’d be giving up if I walked away from his offer.
That kind of money would change my entire life.
I’d have time with Hudson. Real time. Not stolen hours in between shifts, not rushed conversations over late-night takeout.
We could travel, we could see the world.
I rub a hand over my chest, over the tightness settling there. “I don’t know what to do.”
Miller watches me, her sharp green eyes softer now. “I think you do.”
“What would you do?”
Miller leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I wouldn’t take the money.”
I swallow. “Why not?”
She tilts her head, considering. “Because money’s nice, sure.
But not if it comes with a storm cloud hanging over it.
Not if it means constantly wondering when the other shoe’s gonna drop.
And definitely not if it means waking up every morning hoping your name isn’t in some headline tied to a bunch of corrupt assholes.
” She lifts her brows. “You already have enough on your plate, babe. You really wanna add a scandal to it?”
I let out a slow breath, nodding. I already knew the answer, deep down. I just needed someone else to say it. “Okay, but what if Tate tries to take the diner from me anyway? Is there any way he could do that legally?”
Miller snorts, setting her lemon bar down and dusting off her hands. “Legally? Not unless you signed something I don’t know about.” She pauses for a moment. “ Did you sign something I don’t know about?”
I roll my eyes. “No, Miller.”
“Then he’s shit out of luck,” she says, leaning back and stretching her arms behind her head.
“Worst he can do is make your life a living hell. Toss some legal threats your way, try to outbid you for supplies, make backhanded comments about how you’ll regret this in that big fish in a small pond way that fuckers like him love. ”
I exhale, drumming my fingers against my desk. “Great. So basically, he’ll just be a persistent pain in my ass. ”
Miller shrugs. “You say that like it’s something new.”
I snort. “So what, I just tell him no thanks and brace for impact?”
“You tell him hell no and brace for impact,” she corrects, giving me a pointed look. “And don’t let him intimidate you. He’s powerful, but you’re smart. And you’ve got me.” She taps the folders with a manicured nail. “And I love yelling at grown men. Made a living out of it, actually.”
She pushes back from the desk, stretching like this little meeting has been a minor inconvenience in her otherwise thrilling day. “Alright, babe. I’m taking another lemon bar as payment for my services.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I appreciate you looking into all of this. I know you’re busy.”
She waves me off like I just suggested something ridiculous. “Never too busy for my best gal.” She plucks another lemon bar off the plate and takes a big bite, making an exaggerated moan. “Fuck. If you ever do sell, you should go into the bakery business.”
I shake my head, smirking. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She chews thoughtfully, then dusts the crumbs off her fingers before reaching for me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a quick, fierce hug. I let myself melt into it, just for a second.
She pulls back, squeezing my arms. “You’re a tough bitch, Lark. You’re gonna be fine. And if you’re not, call me, and I’ll be on my way.”
“I love you,” I say, because I do and there’s no one else I’d rather have in my corner.
Miller lifts a hand over her shoulder as she heads for the door. “I know,” she calls back, without even turning around.
The door swings shut behind her, and I sit there for a moment, staring at my reflection in the small mirror hung on the wall. My shoulders are straighter than they were before.
“You are a tough bitch, Lark Westwood,” I tell myself. But the truth is, tough bitches don’t sit around waiting for the sky to fall.
So I keep busy. Wipe down the counter even though it’s already clean. Refill the salt and pepper shakers. Adjust the coffee cups stacked beside the brewer. Josie, one of our waitresses, eyes me from across the diner, brows raised, and I know what she’s thinking.
I ignore her.
Outside, the afternoon light slants through the windows, golden and steady, painting long streaks over the booths.
A few customers linger, their forks scraping against plates, the low hum of conversation blending with Patsy Cline playing softly from the record player.
I keep moving, keep my hands busy, keep my breath steady.
Then the door swings open.
I hear his boots first, the heavy sound of them against the tile. Wendell Tate, in his usual Stetson, white button-up, and Levi jeans with a briefcase in one hand, looking like the kind of man who’s spent his entire life getting exactly what he wants.
He carries himself like someone who’s never had to be told no.
Which makes this all the more satisfying.