LARK #3
My heart does that annoying thing where it climbs too high in my chest and presses into my throat.
Hudson spots me first. He lifts his glove high and waves it in the air, grinning so wide I can see every tooth from here.
Boone glances over his shoulder, catches sight of me, and that smile he saves just for me stretches across his face, dimples deep and shameless.
His hair’s gotten longer—dark curls brushing the tops of his broad shoulders now—and his stubble’s gone full beard, scruffier.
If he didn’t look like a rugged, swoony rancher before, he sure as hell does now.
Sweat clings to his skin, making every muscle stand out sharper under the sun.
I can see the curve of his abs through the thin fabric of his cutoff as he tugs the glove from his hand and drops it on the porch.
He says something to Hudson, then jogs toward me, chest heaving, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing he sees.
I get out of the car, already shaking my head.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me in like it’s been a week instead of an afternoon. I squeal as he lifts me off the ground, my arms wrapping around his neck. He smells like salt and sun, and I should push him off, but I don’t.
“You’re disgusting,” I tell him, but I don’t mean it. Not even a little.
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “I thought that’s how you liked me,” he murmurs. “Hot and dirty.”
I roll my eyes but he kisses me before I can say anything else. Then he breaks it, eyes on mine. “I missed you today. ”
“You say that every day,” I say, smiling in spite of myself.
He sets me down and brushes hair away from my face, his fingers grazing the side of cheeks. “I mean it every day.”
I loop my arms around his neck and tug him down until his mouth meets mine.
There’s nothing slow about it. It’s immediate, all heat and tension and the kind of want that simmers all day before spilling over.
His lips part against mine, and I take advantage, kissing him deeper, rougher, until he exhales into me like he’s been holding his breath.
His bottom lip is full and warm beneath mine, and when I suck it into my mouth, he lets out the quietest sound.
A little moan that vibrates straight through my chest.
His fingers grip my waist like he’s trying to steady himself, but I can feel the shift in him. The urgency. The way he leans in like he’d take this further if we weren’t standing in the middle of the damn yard.
“Think we should head back to the cabin,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I can show you how much I missed you.”
A loud cough cuts the air, and we both turn to find Hudson standing a few feet away, glove tucked under his arm, brow arched like he’s the parent and we’re the ones who need boundaries. “There’s a child here, remember?”
Boone lets go and laughs, ruffling Hudson’s hair. “Get used to it, kid.”
“Never,” Hudson deadpans, but his arms are already around me in a hug, squeezing tighter than usual.
I kiss the top of his head, which now reaches just below my nose.
He’s growing so fast it almost hurts to look at him.
His skin is dark from all the sun, his nose and cheeks dusted with light freckles that match Boone’s in the summer.
His curls have gotten long, thick and chocolate brown, soft under my hand.
He started growing them out after Boone did.
He said it was just for fun, but I know better.
I see the way he watches his dad, I see the way he copies him.
It undoes me a little, every single time.
Boone’s hand grazes the small of my back as we walk toward the porch. “How was work?”
I open my mouth to answer, but the low purr of a car engine interrupts me. Tires crunch over gravel behind me, and when I glance over my shoulder, my breath sticks.
It’s a car that doesn’t belong out here.
Not on ranch land. Not with the sun still hanging low and the scent of hay still fresh in the air.
A sleek black Audi SUV—washed, waxed, and definitely out of place.
City money. Probably has a phone charger built into the dash and air vents that smell like eucalyptus.
My brows pinch together. “Were you expecting anyone?”
Boone shakes his head once, subtle, but there’s a shift in his expression. A flicker of something cautious. “Hud, go on inside. Wash up for dinner.”
Hudson doesn’t argue. He leaves his glove on the porch and heads for the door.
Boone’s shoulders straighten just as the driver’s side door clicks open and a man steps out.
He’s definitely the type of man you notice twice.
First because of his size, because holy fuck.
He’s tall with shoulders that stretch the seams of his dress shirt, forearms roped with muscle, the sort of build that says he could lift a truck if someone dared him to.
And then again because of his face—magazine worthy, so symmetrical and sharp it feels engineered, like he was built in a lab for the sole purpose of being looked at.
Strong jaw, sun-bronzed skin that looks more Malibu than Montana.
His blond hair is styled like he stepped out of a high-end barbershop ten minutes ago—clean, purposeful, not a strand out of place.
There’s a dusting of scruff along his jaw, just enough to make him look even more masculine than he already does, like the universe looked at him and thought, sure, let’s give him that too.
His slate-colored eyes are unreadable, polite but distant, like he’s learned how to disarm a room without giving anyone access.
His sleeves are rolled up, like maybe he wants you to think he’s relaxed, but the pressed shirt and expensive-looking slacks say otherwise.
He walks like someone who knows exactly how much space he takes up.
Boone’s voice drops low beside me, close to my ear. “Sawyer Hart.”
Hart ?
My stomach coils. I don’t know much about the Hart brothers, but I know enough. They don’t show up here at the ranch. And definitely not at the main house.
Sawyer gets closer and flashes a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His cologne hits before he’s within arm’s reach—clean and woodsy.
He nods at both of us. “Evening.”
Boone nods back, but there’s no warmth in it. Just a tight flick of his chin and the bare minimum effort. “Sawyer.”
Sawyer steps forward and holds out a hand like this is some kind of cordial visit.
Boone hesitates for a beat before shaking it, then drops his arm to his side like the contact left a residue.
Sawyer tucks his hands in his pockets and glances toward Boone’s pocket. “Tried reaching you earlier. Had some news about Tate. Thought you’d want to hear it, but your phone was either off or dead.”
Boone digs out his phone and flips it over in his palm. The screen stays black. “Oops.”
I cut him a look. “His phone’s always either dead or lost. Usually both.”
Then I step forward and offer my hand. “Lark Westwood.”
Sawyer takes it with a different kind of smile this time—gentler, almost like he means it. His fingers are warm and his grip firm, but not pushy. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
The southern lilt in his voice is faint but there, threading through the formality like it’s second nature—refined, but not polished clean. There’s something in his expression that softens the sharpness of his features.
Boone’s voice slices through the pause. “Your contacts come through?”
Sawyer releases my hand and lets out a low whistle, the sound sliding between his teeth like it’s too heavy to hold. “Boy, did they.”
Boone folds his arms across his chest. “Go on.”
Sawyer tilts his head slightly, like he’s weighing how much to say. “Turns out Tate set up a shell company a few years back. Totally off the books—nothing traceable at first glance.”
Boone’s brow furrows. “A shell company? ”
Sawyer nods. “Yeah. Name’s buried under layers, but it’s been his front for years.”
Boone tilts his head. “So…it doesn’t exist on paper?”
“Well,” Sawyer says, rocking back on his heels, “it exists now. Or at least, the paper trail does.”
My arms cross without me realizing it. “You’re saying he left a breadcrumb trail? That feels…sloppy.”
Sawyer flicks his eyes toward me. “Turns out, Wendell’s smart. But not smart enough to keep a fake company from showing up in federal records once the IRS starts sniffing around.”
Boone’s eyes narrow. “Tax fraud?”
“Big time.” Sawyer pulls his phone from his pocket and taps the screen before holding it out. “Wire transfers, off-shore accounts, falsified deductions, the works. He’s been laundering money through livestock deals that never actually happened. Selling cattle that don’t exist.”
Boone takes the phone, brows knitting together again as he scans the screen.
“That’s how he’s kept his hands clean all these years,” Sawyer continues. “Everything funneled through that ghost company. On paper, he’s just investing in agriculture—small, rural stuff, easy to pass over. But the money’s been moving in circles.”
Boone doesn’t look up. “How long has this been going on?”
“Almost a decade,” Sawyer says. “Long enough that if someone knew where to look, they could bury him in court.”
I cross my arms, the cotton of my sleeves stretching tight over my elbows, and let the silence hang for a second longer than comfortable.
“He threatened to open a bakery across the street,” I finally say, leveling my voice even though I still feel the sting of it. “Said it’d be cute and trendy. He thinks the community will flock to it, that they’ll ‘outgrow’ my place once they see something shinier.”
Boone’s head turns sharply toward me, his jaw tense, but I keep going.
“He wants to bleed the diner dry. Not just drive me out—humiliate me on the way down.” My hands drop to my sides, restless and hot. “Is there any way we can use what you found to get him to back off?”