Chapter 23LARK #4
Letting someone in—it costs something. You don’t just make space and take it back when things get complicated. It’s a decision. A risk. And after everything we’ve been through—years of silence, a few fragile months of trying again—I get why he might be taking his time.
We’ve only just found our footing again. Something that feels solid. Real.
So maybe this is him being careful. With me. With us. With the version of himself and his life that he’s finally learning to live inside of.
And if that’s what this is—him trying to be sure—it makes sense.
But even so, there’s a part of me that still hopes that he’ll want to make room. That hopes I’m not the only one imagining what forever could look like.
Hudson’s voice cuts through my thoughts, full of that hopeful energy he’s mastered. “Can I spend the night again?”
He’s flopped across the couch now, half a brownie still in hand, eyes flicking between me and Boone like he’s already planning his victory .
I shake my head, smiling. “You know we do still have a house, right? One I pay an actual mortgage for?”
Hudson groans, full-body, like I’ve suggested manual labor or math homework. “Who cares? It’s summer now.”
He’s got a point. School wrapped up last week, his backpack already shoved somewhere in his closet. We’ve officially crossed the line into long days, late nights, and whatever freedom we can carve out of this season.
Boone looks down at me, eyes soft beneath the brim of that worn-out baseball cap. “I thought you were staying,” he says, his voice low, like he’s trying not to hope too hard. “Mom told me she’s making your favorite chili for dinner.”
My stomach practically growls on cue. Molly’s chili isn’t just good, it’s legendary—slow-cooked all day, rich and smoky with just enough heat to keep you sweating through every bite, topped with this sharp cheddar she swears by, sour cream, and cubed avocado with a side of homemade cornbread that could win awards.
I’d do just about anything for a bowl of it short of selling Hudson off to the highest bidder…
and even then, depending on the day, I might consider it.
I nudge Boone with my hip, pretending not to be swayed. “Aren’t you sick of us yet?”
He leans in, presses another kiss to the top of my head like it’s just instinct at this point. “Never.”
Hudson perks up, already sensing the shift. “One more night? Please? Grandma’s leaving the fort up for me.” He adds a pout for good measure, eyes wide and ridiculous.
Before I can respond, Wren scoots in beside him on the couch, mimicking his expression with her chin tilted and bottom lip stuck out. “Yeah, please , Lark.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Oh my god, you’re both exhausting. Fine. But only because of the chili.”
Hudson leaps off the couch like he’s just won the lottery. “Yes!” He bolts toward the stairs, voice echoing through the house. “ Ridge , I’m staying! You can teach me Texas Hold ‘Em! ”
We all laugh before Boone leans in close, his voice barely cutting through Hudson’s footsteps thundering upstairs. “Can we talk for a sec? Out on the deck.”
I nod, curious now, and Wren glances at the clock before stretching her arms overhead. “I’ve got one more training session before dinner,” she says, already moving toward the door. “Don’t eat all the chili before I get back, Lark.”
“No promises. You know how I feel about that chili,” I call after her, grinning as she disappears down the hall.
Boone threads his fingers through mine, his grip easy but firm, and leads me toward the back door. The screen squeaks a little on the hinge, then clicks shut behind us, muting the sounds of the house.
I’ve always loved it out here. The deck stretches wide across the back of the house, solid beneath our boots, worn smooth by years of people standing just like this, looking out at the land.
Molly insisted on string lights a while back—warm white bulbs that glow soft against the sky—and now they hang above us, swaying in the faint breeze, casting the whole space in this gentle, golden haze.
Out past the railing, the land stretches for miles—fields rolling into the tree line, the horizon blurred with the last of the sun.
We drop into the chairs near the railing, and Boone reaches into the old metal cooler beside him. He pulls out two crisp Diet Cokes, the cans slick with condensation, and tosses me one.
I take it, cracking it open. “Well, aren’t you chivalrous.”
He gives me that lopsided grin, the one that never fails to do something to my chest. “Don’t start spreading that around.”
I take a sip, letting the cold bite of it cut through the heat still clinging to me. Boone glances over, his face a little more serious now.
“I stopped by the Harts’ place earlier,” he says, not bothering to ease into it.
I blink. “That’s random.”
“Not really.” He shifts in his seat, turns toward me more. “Riley told me at the bar that Vaughn’s been asking around about some permits. Ones tied to the Bluebell. Figured I’d go find out for myself if it’s bullshit.”
My stomach drops, the cold drink suddenly sharp in my throat. I lower the can. “And?”
There’s no way. Vaughn wouldn’t dare come for the Bluebell, too. If he does, I’m screwed. People love him around here. They love me too, sure, but him? He’s got a name that carries weight. I’d be fucked.
Boone shifts in his chair, that familiar crease forming between his brows like he’s weighing each word before he speaks. “Vaughn’s not coming for the Bluebell.”
I give him a look, unconvinced. “How do you actually know?”
“He’s looking into building something on that corner lot near you. Said it’s high-traffic, good for the community—talked about a feed store or tack shop.”
I take a slow sip of my drink, eyeing him over the rim. “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
Boone exhales through his nose, nodding once.
“The zoning’s a mess. That whole block, including the Bluebell, is still tied up in old permits—stuff from twenty or thirty years ago that should’ve expired, but no one dealt with it.
Vaughn said he started digging to figure out if buying the lot was even worth the hassle, and your name came up in the paperwork. ”
My stomach knots, fingers tightening around the cold can. “So he’s not trying to take it, just wants to figure out how to untangle it?”
Boone’s quiet a beat. Then, “Mostly. Until I told him about Tate.”
That makes me freeze. I look at him fully now, heart thudding. “You told him?”
He nods slowly. “Figured we needed another ally—or at least someone who might know anything that could help us. I told him about the oil under the Bluebell, about what Tate’s trying to do.”
I stare out at the land, barely seeing it, mind racing. “What’d he say?”
Boone shifts again, leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.
“Didn’t even blink. Said if there’s oil under your place, it might run under his lot, too.
Then he made an offer—he wants first rights to lease drilling on his land, legally, clean.
In exchange, he’ll help us. Said he’s got contacts on the health board, people who can make Tate’s shutdown disappear.
If we say yes, he’ll push the original inspection report through, get you re-opened fast, no red tape. ”
I stare at Boone, heart thudding harder now, mouth dry. “He really said that?”
Boone nods, his eyes on mine. “Yeah. He’s not doing it out of the kindness of his heart, but he’s not coming after you either. He’s looking out for himself. And right now, helping you helps him.”
I lean back in the chair. The string lights above sway in the breeze, soft golden orbs blurring slightly as my mind races.
It must’ve taken a hell of a lot for Boone to walk into Vaughn’s house and have that conversation.
Everyone in town knows the history—Lane and Vaughn couldn’t stand each other.
It goes back further than that, rooted in old grudges, land disputes, god knows what else.
The Wildings and the Harts have always been oil and water, and Boone doesn’t forget that kind of thing easily.
He sure as hell doesn’t swallow his pride for just anyone.
But he did—for me.
The Bluebell, my Bluebell, could be open again.
Soon. I could call my staff, tell them to dust off their aprons and come back in.
Get my kitchen up and running again, my regulars back in their usual booths, the smell of coffee and bacon and fresh pies filling the place like it’s supposed to.
I can call the suppliers I finally tracked down after a week of chasing leads and losing sleep.
I can finally start making money again, stop living in this purgatory of waiting, of watching the bills stack up.
Boone shifts beside me. “What’re you thinking?”
I look over at him. I already know I’m gonna have to trust Vaughn Hart.
Not exactly the dream scenario, but if there’s one thing I know about Vaughn, it’s that if this deal gets him closer to whatever he wants—and keeps me from losing everything—I know he’ll follow through.
Not for me. For himself. And right now, that’s enough.
What other option do I have?
I nod slowly. “Let’s do it.”
Boone studies me for a beat, like he’s checking for any hesitation, any crack that might suggest I’m saying it just to end the conversation.
“You sure?” His voice is low, steady, like he’s giving me one last out.
“I’m sure,” I say, and I mean it. “I want to be open again. I’ve got employees depending on me. If everything’s legal and clean, I want to move ahead.”
He nods, jaw ticking slightly as he leans down and sets his soda on the deck beside his boot. “Alright. I’ll give Vaughn a call later. Let him know we’re in.”
Then he pats his thigh and tilts his head, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Come here, girlfriend .”