LARK
LARK
I wake to the sound of sharp, insistent knocks at my front door.
For a second, I don’t move, still tangled in the fog of sleep, my body heavy, my head thick. My brain struggles to catch up— where am I, what time is it, who the hell is at my door?
I push myself off the couch, the throw blanket slipping off my shoulders as I blink at the dim glow of the lamp I forgot to turn off. I rub at my neck, sore from sleeping at an odd angle, already regretting passing out here instead of hauling my ass upstairs to bed.
Another round of knocks—harder this time.
I glance at my phone on the coffee table. 8:30 p.m.
I exhale, stretching my arms overhead, my sweatshirt riding up slightly as my back pops. Who the fuck is showing up at my house at this hour?
Maybe Miller. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. If she found something—anything—on how to fight the health department shutdown, she’d be the type to come storming over, ready to put a plan into motion.
It’s been two days since the Bluebell closed, and the weight of it is crushing me. Two days of calls to the health department, two days of staring at financial spreadsheets until my vision blurred, two days of trying to act like I have some sort of plan when I don’t.
I drag a hand over my face, trying to shake off the exhaustion that clings to me like a second skin.
The stress has been relentless. I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time.
I barely eat. Every second I’m awake, I’m thinking about the Bluebell, about the employees counting on me, about Hudson—
Hudson.
I glance toward the staircase. He came home early from school today, sick with a fever and a stomachache, throwing up every few hours. As if I didn’t already have enough to deal with. But that’s just the life of being a mom. No off days, no breaks.
The knocking comes again. Jesus.
I shuffle toward the door, dragging a hand through my hair that definitely looks like it lost a fight with a small animal. My old Dodgers sweatshirt is hanging off me like it gave up hours ago, and my sweatpants are slouched at the ankles. I probably look like I just rolled out of a ditch.
I’m in no shape for small talk. Or people. Or whatever fresh hell is waiting on the other side of that door. But if this is Miller, I need whatever news she’s bringing.
I take a steadying breath and swing the door open.
Only, it’s not Miller standing there.
It’s Boone.
And I’m too tired, too drained, too fucking worn out to deal with him right now.
Boone tilts his head, eyes dragging over me like he’s trying to decide whether I’ve just survived a natural disaster or created one.
“Wow,” he says, dragging the word out. “You look—”
I level him with a flat stare. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
His lips twitch, the ghost of a laugh threatening to break free. “I was gonna say—”
“I don’t care.”
He laughs, shaking his head, leaning against the doorframe like he’s not planning on going anywhere.
“I was coming to check on you,” he says, eyes still watching me too closely. “Hadn’t heard much from you the last couple days. ”
I cross my arms over my chest, more for warmth than any real attempt at shutting him out. “Didn’t realize I owed you updates on my life.”
He ignores that, his gaze sweeping behind me like he’s trying to get a read on the house. “You eaten anything?”
I roll my eyes. Really? That’s his first question? “I’m fine.”
Boone raises a brow, unimpressed.
“Seriously,” I say, already anticipating whatever argument he’s about to throw my way. “I don’t need you to—”
Too late.
He’s already stepping inside, brushing past me like he pays the mortgage.
My brows shoot up. “Oh, great. Just make yourself at home.”
He smirks, way too pleased with himself. “Thanks, I think I will.”
I let out a slow, suffering exhale, because of course he’s doing this.
Of course Boone Wilding thinks he can just show up uninvited, bulldoze his way into my space, and act like he belongs in it. But I don’t have the energy to fight him on it tonight.
He strides into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. The audacity.
I watch as he swings the door open and starts rummaging through it. Pulls out eggs, a block of cheddar, a pack of bacon like he already has a plan.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making you dinner.” He sets everything on the counter and opens the pantry like he knows exactly where it is. He pulls out a loaf of sourdough, a potato, an onion.
I blink. “At nine o’clock at night?”
He shrugs, rolling his sleeves up, forearms flexing like it’s intentional. “Seems like a reasonable time.”
I scoff. “For who? Psychopaths?”
“Where are your pots and pans?”
“Are you serious?”
Boone just arches a brow like I’m the one being difficult.
“Never mind,” he says, turning toward my cabinets and yanking them open .
I throw my hands up. “Oh, sure. Just go through my stuff.”
“Thanks, I will. Now sit.”
I groan, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he’s right.
I press my forehead into my hands. “Hudson’s been sick all day, by the way. Just in case you were wondering how my day’s going.”
Boone stills for half a second before turning back to me. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll live. Fever, stomach stuff. You know how it is. Probably got it from someone at school.”
Boone nods, setting a skillet on the stove. “Poor kid. You need anything for him? Medicine? Ginger ale?”
I shake my head. “Already got it.”
He cracks an egg into a bowl and starts whisking like this is some domestic fantasy I signed up for.
I should tell him to leave. Should peel myself off this chair, walk over there, and shove his stupidly massive, Greek-god-of-a-lumberjack ass straight out the door before he decides to hang a damn apron on the hook and move in.
Instead, I sit there watching him as he makes me dinner like this is a perfectly normal night in my perfectly normal life.
I sigh, crossing my arms tighter. “Alright, but seriously— why the hell are you in my house, making me dinner, at almost nine p.m.?”
He flips the bacon in another pan and glances over his shoulder like we’re talking about the weather. “Who else is going to take care of you?”
I freeze. “What?”
“You’re always taking care of everything else,” he says, as if this is just a casual observation. “The Bluebell. Hudson. Everyone but yourself. Someone should take care of you.”
I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, because what the fuck else am I supposed to do with that? “Oh, and let me guess—you think that someone should be you?”
Boone doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d like it to be.”
I purse my lips together, looking anywhere but at his annoyingly handsome face. A long time ago, I let myself believe that Boone Wilding was going to be the person I leaned on for the rest of my life. The one who’d be there, no matter what.
Then he left, and I learned how to do it alone.
I shift in my chair, tugging at a loose thread on the cuff of my sweatshirt, twisting it around my finger like maybe if I pull hard enough, I’ll find the right thing to say. Instead, I shrug. “It’s fine. I like doing things on my own.”
He just watches me, steady and patient. Then, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to.”
My chest tightens. I swallow, still pulling at that damn thread, keeping my gaze locked on it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Boone doesn’t push. Just turns back to the stove, flipping the bacon, stirring something in the pan. A few minutes pass in silence, except for the quiet clatter of utensils, the low sizzle of butter hitting heat.
Then, he sets a plate in front of me.
Crispy bacon, golden roasted potatoes, eggs scrambled with cheese and caramelized onions. Thick slices of buttered sourdough toast.
It smells out of this world.
I stare down at it. I can’t remember the last time someone made me dinner.
As much as I don’t want to admit it…it’s nice.
More than nice.
Boone slides into the chair across from me, but he doesn’t say anything. He just waits.
I pick up my fork, hesitating for half a second too long before taking a bite of the eggs. The second it hits my tongue, a low, involuntary moan slips out.
Boone’s eyes darken.
I freeze, fork halfway out of mouth. “Shut up.”
His lips twitch. “Didn’t say a word.”
I take another bite, this one slower, letting myself actually enjoy it. Then I shake my head, smirking. “This is actually kind of nice. ”
Boone raises a brow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I chew thoughtfully, swallow. “I should have my baby daddy come make me dinner more often.”
Boone barks out a laugh, head tilting back slightly. “Jesus, Lark.”
I grin. “That’s what I’m calling you from now on.”
He winks, cocky as ever. “Or, you could just call me Daddy.”
I nearly choke on my toast.
“You’re the worst,” I say, reaching for a piece of bacon.
He shrugs with a half-smile. “Not like you haven’t called me that before.”
My hand flies out before I even think about it, launching the piece of bacon straight at his head. Boone dodges, laughing, and I roll my eyes, fighting the smallest, most annoying smile.
Suddenly he pushes back from the table and makes his way over to my crammed bookshelf.
I tense, suddenly hyper aware of just how personal it feels to have someone flipping through the books you read. It’s not like he’s rifling through my underwear drawer, but still—it feels intimate.
He trails a finger along the spines, scanning the titles. “Damn. This many books, and you still find time to be difficult?”
I narrow my eyes. “Careful, Wilding.”
His laughs before he pulls one out, inspecting the cover—a shirtless, chiseled man gazing seductively at a perfectly ripe peach.
Boone stares at it, his eyebrows slowly rising. Then he flips it over, like the back cover will somehow explain why this book even exists.
“ Forbidden Fruit ,” he reads aloud. Then shakes his head. “What the hell is this?”
I wink. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”