LARK #3
I dig my nails into my palm, forcing myself to breathe.
Losing one supplier would be bad.
Losing three would be catastrophic.
It would mean scrambling to find new ones. Paying more for everything. Risking quality. Changing recipes, menus, reworking costs. It would be a nightmare, and Wendell Tate knows it.
He steeples his fingers and leans forward slightly. “This isn’t personal, Lark. It’s business.”
I finally drag my gaze back up to his, my breath tight in my lungs.
The hell it isn’t.
I keep my face neutral even as my mind races, even as I try to calculate how much time I have before this all collapses around me.
Wendell leans back, his smug smile still firmly in place. “Now,” he says, like he’s doing me a favor. “Would you like to reconsider my offer?”
I grab the folder, gripping it tighter than I probably need to. “I want to show this to my lawyer.”
Wendell barely reacts. He just tilts his head, like he expected as much.
This is amusing to him, watching me squirm.
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “But you’re not going to have much time, considering you need to find another supplier within the next few weeks if you want to keep your inventory steady. ”
He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. His voice is low, measured. Calm in the way a predator is before it strikes. “I’m being generous, Lark. Letting you reconsider.”
A scoff slips out before I can stop it. “Generous?” I repeat, lifting a brow. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
He grins, slow and knowing. “I knew you weren’t just a pretty face.” He gestures vaguely at me. “Knew you had some fire under there.”
The condescension in his tone makes me want to slam the folder shut and throw it at his head.
He stands, gathering his things. “I never let sentiment get in the way of a good deal. Maybe you should follow suit, and quickly. Clock’s ticking.”
He adjusts the brim of his Stetson, studying me for a beat. Then, just before he turns to leave, he murmurs, “Think about what’s best for your son, Lark.”
It takes everything in me not to flinch.
He strides out of the diner, the little brass bell on the door jingling in his wake, the echo of his words sinking into my skin like a stain.
I sit there. Frozen.
Losing Blue Ridge is a major setback.
I already know it’s going to wreck my inventory. It’s going to cut deep into my margins.
I run a hand down my face, forcing myself to think.
We can switch to local suppliers. They’re more expensive, but we can make it work for a little while. A week. Maybe two.
We can trim the menu, adjust portion sizes.
We can buy in bulk from warehouse distributors. The quality will take a hit, but it’s something.
It’s all temporary, though. None of it will hold. None of it will fix the fact that I’m hemorrhaging options.
I press my palms into my forehead. I knew he’d pull some shit like this, Miller had even prepared me for the possibility of it—I just thought I’d have more time.
Thought I’d at least get a chance to catch up before he was already three steps ahead, laying the next trap before I even knew I was in one.
Humiliation burns the back of my throat.
He fucking played me like a goddamn fiddle.
And I let him.
**********
I yank my Dodgers cap lower, shading my eyes from the late afternoon sun. The wind picks up, tangling my hair across my face, and I shove it back with a frustrated sigh. My mind won’t quit racing, stuck on an endless loop of numbers and phone calls and worst-case scenarios.
All afternoon, I’ve been chasing leads, scrambling to find new suppliers, holding onto the edges of The Bluebell like it might slip through my fingers if I loosen my grip even an inch.
But now I have to shift gears. Now, I have to be a mom.
And that means pushing everything else aside—burying the panic, plastering on a smile, and making sure Hudson doesn’t feel a single ounce of the pressure pressing down on me.
That’s the thing about doing this alone.
It’s not just the weight of responsibility, the constant decisions, the exhaustion that sinks into every fiber of my being so deep I swear I could sleep for a year.
It’s the fact that there’s no one to split the load with.
No one to say, Hey, I’ve got this one. You rest. No one to come home to at the end of the day and vent about how my kid is growing up too fast or how the fridge just broke or how I spent all morning trying to keep a man in a cowboy hat from bulldozing my life.
I scan the field and spot Hudson by third base, grinning as he gestures wildly, caught up in some animated retelling. His cheeks are flushed, his whole body loose with the kind of happiness that comes easy when you’re twelve and the only thing on your mind is baseball.
My chest tightens.
I’d do anything to protect that, to make sure he never has to carry the kind of weight I do.
A gust of wind rolls through, carrying the crisp scent of mowed fields and sun-drenched soil, and I wrap my arms around myself, holding on to something invisible.
It would be nice, I think, to have someone to share all of this with.
Not just someone there—not just some warm body filling a space—but someone who wants to be in it with me.
Who sees the mess, the cracks, and chooses it anyway.
Someone who stands beside me, who lets me lean when my knees start to shake.
But that’s not my life. It hasn’t been for a long time.
The sun shifts, casting a long shadow over the grass beside me. A broad, unmistakable silhouette.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is. But I do anyway.
Boone stands a little behind me, a coffee cup from The Bluebell in one hand, the other tucked into the front pocket of his jeans.
A backwards baseball cap sits low on his head, dark curls spilling from beneath it, brushing against the nape of his neck.
His white T-shirt is pulled taut over his chest, over shoulders and biceps that have only gotten stronger with time.
Damn him.
Damn him and his stupid backwards baseball hat. He knows what that does to me.
The wind picks up and my hair whips across his chest. He’s close enough that I can smell him. Clean, like fresh detergent and the faintest trace of something masculine, maybe new cologne.
Boone clears his throat behind me. “Everything okay?”
I turn to look at him, arms crossing over my chest. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
He lifts a brow. “Because I thought I was picking Hudson up from practice from now on.”
Oh. Right. Shit.
Heat prickles at the back of my neck. “I forgot,” I admit. “Sorry. Habit.”
He laughs. “It’s okay.”
We both look out at the field, watching as Hudson lines up for a drill. He moves fast, quick on his feet, making the play look effortless.
Boone tilts his chin toward him. “He’s good.”
“He is,” I say, warmth swelling in my chest. I nudge him lightly. “Wonder where he gets it from.”
Boone laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, and I swear there’s a hint of pink in his ears.
I glance toward my car. “I should go.”
Before I can take a step, he reaches out, fingers brushing my elbow. “You sure everything’s okay?”
I sigh, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m good. It’s just diner stuff.”
Which is like calling the Grand Canyon a pothole, but here we are.
My mind scrolls through the never-ending to-do list that’s been running me into the ground. Find a new supplier before the Bluebell crashes and burns. Figure out if the grill is actually dying or if it just hates me personally. Find time to sleep. Or eat. Or breathe. Get my life together. Somehow.
It all makes my shoulders slump, exhaustion curling in my bones.
I need a run. A good, long run where I can press my feet into the earth, let my body move without thinking, let my brain quiet itself for once.
I used to run every single day, back before Hudson. Back when I had time. Back when I was training for cross-country meets, chasing personal records, getting lost in the rhythm of my steps, in the steady inhale-exhale of my breath.
I still try to squeeze in a run when I can, but those moments are rare now, stolen in between shifts at the diner and baseball practices and remembering to buy milk before we run out.
I glance over at Boone before I can second-guess myself. “Are you busy after practice? Or do you think you could spare an hour?”
His brows lift slightly. “I’m not busy. What’s up? ”
I suddenly feel ridiculous for even asking. “I…I was just wondering if you could stay with Hudson for a bit at the house so I can go on a run.” I wave a hand, already rambling. “It’s just been a while since I’ve had the time, and I—”
“I’ll stay,” he says, cutting me off.
I blink. “What about the ranch?”
He shrugs. “I can delegate.”
“Are you sure?”
Boone laughs, his dimples popping as he shakes his head. “Lark. It’s an hour. I’m sure.”
Something in me unwinds just a little. “Thanks.” I exhale, then point a finger at him. “Make sure he does his homework.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “You wound me. You don’t think I can handle one twelve-year-old?”
I lift a brow. “He has to sit and read for twenty minutes, but he might need some help. He’s dyslexic.”
Boone nods, completely unbothered. “Me too.”
I frown. “You are?”
“Yeah.”
I stare at him. “How the hell have I known you my whole life and I’ve never known that?”
Boone’s eyes flick back toward the field. “It wasn’t exactly something I was proud of when I was young,” he says. “Nobody knew for a long time.”
I watch him, something soft unfurling in my chest. “I didn’t…”
He shakes his head, dismissing it. “I got it. Don’t worry.”
I nod, my throat feeling tighter than it should. “Okay. Thank you.”
I wave at Hudson before I turn to leave. He catches my eye from across the field and gives me a nod—barely perceptible, like it pains him to acknowledge me in public. He’s too cool to wave to his mom now. I shake my head with a smile as I turn toward my car.