Chapter 20LARK
LARK
Boone made good on his word the second we walked through the door.
Twice.
Once on the kitchen counter, where I definitely knocked over a bowl of lemons, and again in the shower, where the water was too hot, and we were too impatient, and I nearly slipped trying to get my shorts off.
Zero regrets. Especially when he pressed me against the tile and whispered things in my ear that should absolutely be illegal.
Now I’m starfished on his bed, limbs everywhere, hair still damp, wearing one of his worn-in T-shirts and a pair of boxers I stole from his drawer like a criminal.
There’s a laptop open on my thighs, glowing way too bright for how little brainpower I’m giving it.
I’m supposed to be working. Or checking my e-mail, I think.
Or maybe pretending to. Honestly, I can’t even remember what I was doing before I started staring at him again.
He’s shirtless.
In sweatpants.
Cooking.
Damp curls falling over his forehead like a Calvin Klein ad, muscles flexing every time he flips something in the pan. He’s hovering over the stove like a man who takes dinner at 1 a.m. very seriously .
He keeps glancing over like he’s making sure I haven’t disappeared, and every time his eyes land on me, my whole body lights up like a firework.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. I pretend to read something on my screen.
Click randomly. Nod to myself like I’m deeply invested in something that isn’t the man currently cooking shirtless ten feet away from me.
I’m not fooling anyone. Especially not myself.
Because the only thing I want right now is to drag him back to this bed and make him break that shower promise a third time.
And maybe a fourth.
The cabin is small and kind of perfect in that lived-in, nothing-matches-but-somehow-it-works way.
There’s one big room with creaky wood floors, a kitchen that blends into the living space, and a big leather couch that’s definitely seen better days but still looks like the most comfortable thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
A few mismatched chairs are scattered around like someone just kept collecting pieces that didn’t go together until—magically—they did.
It smells like cedar and soap. The good kind. The Boone kind.
There are framed photos on the walls—nothing fancy, just the ones you barely notice at first, and then suddenly can’t stop looking at.
One of Boone in a high school baseball uniform, leaning against a bat like he owns the field.
Same easy grin. Same stupidly good hair.
Another of the Wildings all standing in front of the main house, the Montana sky wide and blinding behind them, everyone squinting like they forgot how the sun works.
It’s technically meant for guests—he told me that earlier while we were both still out of breath, laughing about how I nearly took out a lamp with my elbow.
But it doesn’t feel like a guesthouse. It feels like someone thought about it. Like someone cared about where the light comes in in the morning or which blanket’s the softest.
Said it like he was doing me a favor. Stirring something now, half-distracted.
Shirtless. Still damp from the shower. And I swear, I’m doing my best to work—laptop balanced on my knees, fingers poised over the keys—but there’s a six-foot-something distraction standing ten feet away in grey sweatpants and a face that belongs on a billboard somewhere.
He keeps glancing over at me like he’s trying not to make it obvious that he’s looking. But he is.
I tell myself not to stare, to be normal for once in my life, but it’s hopeless.
He’s glowing. Literal post-sex, post-shower, low-light glowing.
There’s even a scar trailing from his shoulder down his bicep that I haven’t asked about yet, but probably will.
Eventually. When I can form sentences again.
And, not to get off-topic, but Boone owns a laptop.
That alone is newsworthy.
This is a man who calls Instagram “that photo thing” and once tried to text a thumbs-up emoji by typing the word “thumbs-up.” I fully expected him to drag out a fossil of a computer with a clunky power cord and a CD tray.
But no. It’s sleek. Silver. Modern. The keyboard still clicks like it’s fresh out of the box.
And he had to ask me for the Wi-Fi password, which—thank God—was taped to the fridge on a little note card that said “Welcome!” in his mom’s handwriting.
The laptop’s warm against my thighs, the fan humming like it’s working harder than I am.
Miller’s email is still open, the photos laid out in a neat little grid like we haven’t already dissected them six different ways.
I click through them again anyway. Not because I need to, but because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
Bluebell’s kitchen, spotless. Like, magazine spread spotless. Counters wiped down, floors clean enough to eat off of, food storage labeled within an inch of its life. The walk-in cooler looks like it belongs in a commercial for something unnecessarily expensive. Even the damn faucet’s gleaming.
I stop on the inspection sheet—clean pass, signature clear as day, date stamped in the corner. Not a single mark against us.
No violations. No gray area. Nothing but proof that we should be open.
I switch over to another email—this one I sent to myself, full of scanned maintenance records Alice had squirreled away like they were gold. Service logs. Permit renewals. A safety inspection from last fall that basically read like a love letter to Bluebell’s grease trap.
All of it spotless. All of it still not enough .
“Find anything new?” Boone calls from the kitchen.
I glance up. He’s stirring something that smells like garlic and onions and a little like heaven. Still shirtless. Because why wouldn’t he be shirtless while I’m having an existential crisis?
“Nothing that Miller doesn’t already have. Nothing Wendell hasn’t already tried to twist.”
Boone frowns. Turns back to whatever he’s making. “Thought the original inspection would be enough.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, dragging my thumb across the trackpad like maybe this time a miracle will appear in PDF format. “So did I. But Wendell filed for a review. Claimed the inspection was compromised.”
Boone sets the spoon down harder than necessary. The metal clinks against the pan like it’s offended. “Compromised?”
“Said we tampered with it,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Because that’s apparently what people with functioning kitchens and legally up-to-date permits do.”
He turns to face me fully now, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, the overhead light catching the line of his collarbone and making me want to forget what we’re talking about entirely. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Tell that to the health department.” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Now we’re stuck in some bureaucratic black hole while they review the appeal. They won’t let us open until the review board signs off, and that could take weeks. Months, even.”
“He’s dragging it out,” Boone says. “Trying to wear you down.”
“He’s trying to bury me in red tape,” I say, staring at the screen like it might offer a solution if I just look hard enough. “And if he stalls long enough, I might not be able to reopen at all.”
Boone crosses his arms, tension barely hidden beneath his easy stance. “Riley mentioned something at the bar tonight,” he says, voice even but edged with something tighter. “Said Vaughn’s been nosing around Bluebell.”
My hands still on the laptop, the cursor blinking on an email I’ve already read three times. “What? ”
“He brought up permits,” Boone continues, pushing off the counter and moving toward the stove where dinner’s simmering, “but he said it could all just be noise for now.”
I sit up straighter in bed, the comforter pooling around my waist as the mattress shifts beneath me. “Are you serious?”
Boone nods, reaching for a pair of plates. “I’m going to the Harts’ tomorrow. See what else Vaughn knows about all of this.”
“You hate the Harts,” I say, eyes narrowing as I watch him spoon crispy potatoes onto one of the plates, the edges browned just right, steam curling up in slow, lazy tendrils.
Beside them, seared chicken glistens in its own juices, speckled with rosemary and salt, a side of blistered green beans tossed in lemon and garlic filling the rest of the plate.
He doesn’t turn around. Just says, low and simple, “I don’t hate all of them.”
I huff out a breath that’s half a laugh. “Most.”
He shrugs, still facing the stove. “Doesn’t mean they’re not useful.”
I close the laptop gently. It makes a soft click as it folds shut, but it feels final. Like we’ve hit the wall on facts and proof and the exhausting loop of trying to convince people of something we already know is true.
“Vaughn’s not going to give us anything,” I say, shifting a little on the bed. “He’s too careful.”
Boone’s voice is calm—too calm. “Let me handle it.”
It’s not a question. Not a suggestion. It’s a line drawn in permanent ink, like the plan’s already been made and I’m just catching up.
Before I can say anything, he picks up the plate from the kitchen and brings it to me, setting it down exactly where the laptop was like he’s replacing something heavy with something warm.
Then he bends and presses a kiss to my forehead.
Soft. Sure. Quiet in the way that matters most. In a way that’s very, very Boone.
And just like that, something shifts.
Not loud. Not obvious. But real. A door creaking open that I didn’t realize I’d locked behind me.
Boone, in my space. His food. His hands. His calm. It feels good. Easy in a way that makes my throat burn. Like this is the thing we were always going to come back to, no matter how far we ran.