LARK
LARK
The glare from my laptop screen stings, but I don’t shut it. My eyes are dry, my head aches, and my whole body feels wrung out, but I keep staring at the spreadsheet in front of me like maybe—maybe—if I look hard enough, the numbers will magically change.
They don’t.
I run a hand through my hair, pressing my fingers into my scalp, trying to keep the frustration from boiling over. My brain is mush, my nerves are shot, and I have exactly nothing to show for it.
I was up half the night looking for new vendors, and I’ve spent the better part of the morning calling every supplier I could find. Not one worked out.
The biggest ones? Already locked into contracts with Wendell Tate.
The smaller ones? Not much better.
One doesn’t deliver this far west.
Another could maybe squeeze me in next quarter.
A third quoted me double what I was paying before.
I’m screwed. I’m so screwed.
I scroll through my spreadsheet again, looking at the numbers I’ve already trimmed down to bare bones.
I’ve cut every unnecessary expense I can think of—new dishware, the second coffee grinder I wanted to invest in, the storage room shelves that have been wobbling for weeks but haven’t completely fallen apart yet.
I let out a long breath, pressing my fingers into my temples. There has to be a way to make this work. A way to stretch what I have until I figure something else out. But the numbers don’t lie, and they don’t leave much room for optimism either.
Rent. Payroll. Utilities. The non-negotiables.
Those will clear out most of the account by the end of the month.
That leaves me with a handful of options, none of them good.
I could dip into what little savings I have left—the money I’ve been hoarding for emergencies.
Though I guess this counts as an emergency.
It’s not like I was saving up for a vacation.
I’d set that money aside for when the freezer finally gives out for good, or when the espresso machine decides to die in the middle of a morning rush.
Not for this. Not for survival.
I drop my head into my hands, pressing my palms against my eyes until all I see is black. I need a solution. A miracle. A supplier who isn’t already up Wendell Tate’s ass.
I lift my head and glance around the office, at the overstuffed filing cabinet in the corner, the shelves cluttered with old invoices, the coffee mug rings staining the desk where Alice used to sit.
She’d run this place with grit and grace, never letting anything shake her, never letting anyone see when she was struggling.
She’d know what to do.
Except she’s not here, and I have no idea what she’d tell me other than the thing I already know: figure it out.
I push away from the desk, pressing my fingers into the small of my back, stretching against the stiffness creeping up my spine.
Sitting here isn’t helping. Staring at numbers that refuse to cooperate isn’t helping.
Thinking about how royally fucked I am sure as hell isn’t helping.
But my brain won’t shut off, won’t stop running through every possible worst-case scenario, and now—because the universe seems determined to make this day even harder than it already is—it’s decided to latch onto Boone .
It’s been days since I saw him. Days since I let him back into my space, since I let myself get caught up in the heat of his touch, the weight of his body pressing against mine like it hadn’t been twelve years.
It was almost like he hadn’t left, like I hadn’t spent more nights than I care to admit wishing I could hate him.
I haven’t talked to him since. Not about anything that didn’t involve Hudson, anyway. I don’t know if that was intentional on his end or if maybe we both just needed the space, needed to let things settle before we said something we couldn’t take back.
But settling doesn’t seem to be happening, at least not in my head.
I rub the back of my neck, like maybe that’ll help shake the memory loose.
But it’s been living rent-free in my head since the second he touched me.
The way his hands moved like they still belonged on my skin.
The way his mouth found my neck, lower, slower, like we’d never stopped knowing each other.
It was like no time had passed and slipping back into me was second nature.
Which, to be honest, is fucking weird. It should’ve felt awkward. Clumsy. Maybe a little sloppy.
But it didn’t.
It felt easy. Too easy.
Like my body never forgot him.
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to get the thought out, but it’s still there—under my skin, in my blood.
I remember the catch in my breath when his hand slid beneath my leggings.
The way my spine curved into him without hesitation.
How my fingers found his hair and tugged, pulling him closer.
Why the hell is he still so good at this?
Good with his hands, his mouth, his tongue. Good at making me forget how much I swore I wouldn’t let him back in. Good at making me feel like nothing had changed when everything had.
It’s infuriating.
I squeeze my eyes shut, like that might erase the feeling, the way my stomach still clenches at the thought of him.
I don’t have time for this. Not now. Not when my entire life is on the verge of collapse.
Not when I have real, actual problems that don’t involve a man who’s already screwed me over once before.
I can’t let myself go there.
Because the second I do, I start remembering how easy it is to fall into him. How natural it feels to be near him, to become the version of me that didn’t second-guess everything between us. The one who loved him fully, without hesitation. Without fear.
And if I think about that too long, I’ll start thinking about how easy it would be to love him like that again.
I can’t afford that. Not now. Not when the life I’ve built without him is still fragile in places. Still finding its footing.
A knock on the office door jerks me out of my spiraling thoughts. “Yeah?”
The door creaks open, and Dawn steps inside, a plate in one hand and a look on her face that tells me she’s not here to take no for an answer.
“Figured you’d been in here long enough to forget that human beings require food,” she says, setting the plate on my desk with an air of finality. “Eat.”
I glance down. There’s a golden stack of pancakes, crisp bacon, buttery scrambled eggs, a few thick slices of toast slathered in strawberry jam. My stomach clenches, but not from hunger.
“Dawn, you didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves me off, putting her hands on her hips. “You work better when you’re not running on fumes. You’re starting to get that look again.”
I blink up at her. “What look?”
“That stubborn, mean little thing you do with your mouth when you’re thinking too hard.” She gestures vaguely at my face, like she’s wiping something off of it. “Like you’re trying to figure out how to dig yourself out of a six-foot hole with a damn soup spoon or something.”
I let out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “That’s…a pretty specific visual. ”
She shrugs. “Well, it ain’t wrong. So, are you gonna eat or am I gonna stand here and make sure you do?”
I press my lips together, dragging my fork through the eggs just to appease her. The last thing I want right now is food, but I know she won’t leave until she’s satisfied I’ve at least tried. I scoop a bite into my mouth, chewing it half-heartedly.
Dawn watches me like a mother hen who’s had just about enough of my bullshit.
Satisfied, she nods. “Good. Now, how long are you planning to hide out in here today?”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “I’m not hiding.”
She lifts a skeptical brow.
“I’m not,” I insist. “I’m working.”
She raises the brow even higher.
Before I can say anything else, another knock sounds at the door, this one quicker, lighter.
Finn pokes his head in, eyes flicking between me and Dawn like he’s not sure if he should be interrupting. “Uh, Lark? Someone’s asking to see you.”
I frown, setting my fork down. “Who?”
Finn shrugs, shifting on his feet before stepping farther inside, lowering his voice slightly. “I dunno. But he looks kind of…official or something.”
My stomach drops. “Official how?”
“Like…suit-and-tie, clipboard-in-hand, serious expression official.”
Dawn snorts. “Well, that’s never a good sign.”
My shoulders stiffen. What the actual fuck?
I stand, already bracing myself for whatever this is. “Where is he?”
“By the counter.” Finn rocks back on his heels. “Want me to tell him you’re busy?”
“No,” I say, already moving toward the door. “I’ll handle it.”
Even though I have a sinking feeling I don’t want to.
The moment I step out into the front of the diner, I spot him.
A man in a dark navy suit, stiff and pressed like he just stepped out of a boardroom, stands near the counter, clutching a black leather portfolio in one hand.
His hair is salt-and-pepper, neatly combed, no-nonsense, and he wears thin, rectangular glasses that sit just far enough down his nose to make him look over them at people like he’s perpetually unimpressed.
He scans the diner, expression unreadable, but his posture says enough. This isn’t going to be a jolly social call.
I square my shoulders, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Can I help you?”
His gaze flicks to me, assessing, professional. “Are you Lark Westwood?”
I nod. “That’s me.”
He extends a hand, his grip firm but perfunctory. “Darren Montgomery, Redwood County Health Department.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. The health department?
I cross my arms, standing a little straighter. “Alright,” I say slowly. “What can I do for you?”
He flips open the portfolio, scanning the paperwork inside before glancing back at me. “You recently had a health inspection here. A couple of weeks ago, correct?”
I nod, my unease growing. “Yeah. We passed, like always. No issues.”