LARK #2
There’s a speaker on the counter, something old and tinny crooning from it softly—Fleetwood Mac, maybe. My eyes drift to the stove, where Boone’s standing in jeans and a T-shirt, one of Molly’s aprons tied around his waist.
He’s stirring something in a pot, completely unbothered, like this is something he does every Tuesday.
There’s a plate of cinnamon crumb cake cooling on the counter behind him. My favorite dessert. I know it without even tasting it because the smell alone nearly drops me to my knees.
He turns around and grins when he sees me, wide and proud.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, crossing the room with easy steps, reaching for me. He presses a kiss to my forehead, his palm warm against the side of my neck. “You’re home earlier than I thought.”
I blink up at him, caught somewhere between laughter and tears. “What is all of this?”
He shrugs like it’s no big thing, like he didn’t just rearrange my entire insides. “You’ve had a shitty day. Figured if I couldn’t fix it, I could at least feed you.”
My eyes sting so suddenly I have to look away. I press a hand to my face and breathe deep, trying to collect myself, but it’s no use. The tears come anyway.
The thoughtfulness of this man—it never stops catching me off guard. It sneaks up and knocks the wind out of me in the gentlest way possible.
I wrap my arms around his middle and hold on.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
His arms wrap around me, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other sliding up and down my spine like he’s trying to soothe something deeper than my skin. Every now and then, his thumb grazes my cheek, catching a tear before it can fall too far.
I breathe him in. Let the scent of soap and flour and Boone fill my lungs. Let the ache in my chest soften against the curve of his body.
What is there to say, anyway?
He’s right. Today fucking sucked. I had to fire someone who’s been in my life longer than most people ever stick around.
Someone who once made me birthday cupcakes with too much frosting and cried with me at Alice’s funeral.
Someone who let me down so deeply I can’t look at the walls of the diner without feeling it.
So I just hold him tighter.
He shifts a little, nudging his nose into my hair. “Hate to break this up,” he murmurs, “but if I burn Mom’s dumplings, she’ll skin me alive.”
I laugh, startled by the sound of it—small and real and a little watery. I let go reluctantly, wiping under my eyes with the backs of my hands. “I’d say that’s fair. She puts a disturbing amount of pride into those dumplings.”
Boone turns back to the stove, lifting the lid with a muttered curse.
“They’re fine,” I say, watching over his shoulder. “No scorch marks, no emergency.”
He gives the pot a skeptical look. “Mom said the dough’s supposed to be light enough to float but heavy enough to hold up a spoon. Which feels impossible. Like some kind of damn culinary riddle.”
“That’s why she doesn’t let anyone else make them,” I say, moving to his side. “It’s not just food—it’s a test of character.”
He lets out a laugh, reaching for the dish towel. “If I fail, I’m blaming her directions. She said, ‘Use your instincts.’ What the hell does that even mean?”
I lean into him, shoulder to shoulder. “Means you better pray to the dumpling gods and hope for the best.”
His hand slides to my lower back, a quick touch that lingers just long enough. “Thanks for coming home.”
“I always come home,” I say, softer now.
He doesn’t say anything to that, just looks at me with something in his eyes that makes it harder to breathe.
My gaze drifts back to the cinnamon crumb cake on the counter. The sugary topping’s just starting to crackle, still warm enough to make the whole kitchen smell like nostalgia.
I nod toward it. “When did Molly have time to make that?”
Boone lifts a brow. “She didn’t. I did.”
I turn my head, narrowing my eyes. “Since when do you know how to make cinnamon crumb cake?”
He shrugs again. “Since about nine last night when my mom walked me through it so I could make it for you.”
I blink. “You learned how to make that for me?”
Boone leans a hip against the counter and grins. “Well, yeah. I already got the girl. Gotta earn my keep somehow.”
The laugh that slips out of me feels easier than the one earlier. Real. Needed.
“Don’t you have work to do today?” I ask.
“Delegated.”
My eyebrows go up. “Look at you. Such sexy management skills. ”
“Careful,” he says, wagging a finger. “If you get too impressed, I might start calling myself indispensable.”
“Too late.”
He smiles again, that easy one that always makes my stomach flutter.
“Where’s Hudson?”
“With Wren and the horses,” he says, turning back to check the pot again. “Tried to bribe him into staying and helping me cook, but he said ‘watching boiling water sounded tragic.’ His exact words.”
I snort. “Let me guess. Ridge withdrawal?”
Boone sighs. “Yeah. He’s been mopey ever since Ridge left. Won’t admit it, but I can tell. Those two got close fast.”
“Ridge was good for him,” I say softly.
“Yeah,” Boone says. “Made him feel like a sidekick instead of a responsibility.”
I glance up at him. “You’re pretty good at that too, you know.”
He looks at me then, something soft flickering in his eyes. “Trying to be. You doing okay?”
I nod. “Better now.”
My fingers find the hem of his T-shirt and slip underneath. His skin is warm, muscles twitching under my touch. Goosebumps rise in their wake. He stiffens a little, then grins—lopsided, cocky, boyish.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I press my palm flat against his stomach, sliding higher, just slow enough to make him twitch again. “Supervising.”
“Oh yeah?” His grin deepens.
“Mm-hmm.” I inch closer. “Making sure you stay focused. Would hate for you to burn Molly’s dumplings.”
He exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to keep it together. I kiss the edge of his jaw, and the sound that slips out of him is pure wreckage.
“Lark,” he warns.
“Boone,” I echo, my voice breathy, dragging my lips down the side of his neck. My hands roam higher beneath his shirt, fingers splaying over his chest .
He groans—low and needy—his hand finding my waist. “Are you trying to sabotage me?”
“Just conducting a quality control inspection,” I murmur, nipping just below his ear.
“Of what? My moral integrity?”
“The structural integrity of this operation,” I say, eyes sparkling. “You’re doing great, by the way.”
His grip tightens at my waist, like he’s trying to get his bearings, then his other hand slips up the back of my shirt, his rough palm dragging against bare skin.
“You keep this up,” he murmurs, leaning in close, “I’m gonna forget about dinner altogether.”
“Then I guess you better multitask, cowboy.”
Boone’s fingers grip my chin, rough and firm, tilting my face up until my mouth is his to take.
He kisses me like he’s finally off a leash he’s been straining against for days.
His tongue pushes into my mouth, deep and greedy, dragging a sound out of me I didn’t mean to make.
It’s messy, all teeth and breath and hands, his moving fast now, one up my back, shoving under my shirt like he can’t stand the barrier.
The clasp of my bra pops open and I gasp, but he swallows the sound like it fuels him. His palm drags along my ribs until it finds the curve of my breast. His thumb strokes the soft swell first, teasing just enough to make my stomach flip.
Then he finds my nipple and rolls it between his fingers until I’m moaning into his mouth, my whole body strung tight and desperate.
His other hand lands on my hip, gripping hard, holding me right where he wants me. His body’s pressed flush against mine now—warm, solid, and unmovable. I shift against him and feel the proof of just how much he wants this, wants me, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
“This what you needed today?” he murmurs, his lips brushing mine with every word.
“I needed you,” I whisper back, my arms around his neck, fingers curling tight in his hair. “This is just a bonus.”
“This dinner was supposed to be a reward, not a detour.”
I grin, my heart racing. “You’re very bad at staying focused, cowboy.”
“You’re not exactly helping.”
I gasp when his lips trail lower, gently along the curve of my neck, each kiss hotter than the last, until he finds that spot just below my jaw that turns my spine to jelly.
His hand slides up, tilting my chin so he can kiss lower.
Deeper. His lips are slow and thorough, like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin.
“Bedroom,” he growls, voice low and ragged. “Now.”
I blink up at him, dazed. “What about the dumplings?”
“Damn the dumplings.”
He turns the oven off and lifts me up, backing us out of the kitchen. I hook my arms around his neck, biting down on a grin because of course he would say that. Of course he’d forget his mom’s prized recipe the second I put my hands on him.
The guest bedroom’s less than ten steps from the kitchen. He kicks the door shut behind us, the soft click of the lock echoing through the room.
My back hits the mattress, and he’s right there with me, one hand braced beside my head, the other cupping my jaw as he slants his mouth over mine. His kiss is all heat and intent—no teasing, no hesitation—just the type of deep kiss that leaves me gasping, already aching for more.
“Off,” he says against my mouth, tugging my shirt up. I lift my arms and he yanks it off, flinging it somewhere behind him. The bra goes next, leaving me bare from the waist up.
His gaze drops, and something changes in his expression—like he’s hungry and reverent all at once. Then his mouth is on me, lips closing around one nipple, tongue circling, teasing. I arch into him with a sharp inhale, my hands threading into his hair, holding him there.
“Boone,” I whisper, already breathless.
He groans in response, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.