Page 62 of At First Spark
The rest of it feels off, and I stay in the kitchen longer than I need to. Clean things that don’t need cleaning. Rearrange items that were already in place. Doing anything to keep my mind free from wandering back to the moment with Holt. Anything to help it seem like I’m earning my keep in his house and not taking advantage.
Holt disappears down the hall at some point, the sound of the shower starting and stopping marking time in a way I don’t want to track.
By the time I finally make it back to the bedroom, the house has settled again.
Rook is already curled up on the bed, watching the door like he’s been waiting.
“I know,” I tell him softly.
I sit on the edge of the mattress staring at the floor. Then lie back slowly, the ceiling coming into view again in a way that feels different from last night. Because now I know exactly what I’m risking by staying.
Chapter Ten – Holt
I know the second I see his truck that this will be a problem.
It’s parked off to the side of the inn like it doesn’t belong there—too clean, too polished, too deliberate against the uneven gravel and weathered siding that looks like it’s been holding itself together out of sheer stubbornness. Morning light hits the windshield at an angle that makes it flash sharp and bright, a clean contrast to everything else about this place.
Lark goes still beside me. Not enough that anyone who didn’t know her would catch it. But I do. I feel it in the way her posture shifts, in the way the air around her tightens, in the way she inhales just a little deeper before stepping out of the truck.
“That’s Nolan,” she says.
I shut off the engine and take a second before moving, my hand still resting on the wheel as I look at the inn, the truck, the stretch of space between them that feels like a line already drawn before either of us stepped out of the car.
“He got here early,” I say.
“He always does.”
There’s history in that answer.
We step out at the same time, boots hitting gravel in a rhythm that should feel normal after the last couple of days but doesn’t, not with this sitting in front of us. The morning air is cooler than it was yesterday, carrying that damp, salt-tinged breeze off the bay, and the inn looks different in this light—less forgiving against damage we’ve already uncovered.
Lark doesn’t look at the house. She looks at the truck, then she starts walking. I follow for my own curiosity.
Nolan comes around the side of the building before we reach the halfway point on the path.
He moves like he belongs wherever he decides to stand, like he’s already assessed the situation and filed it into something manageable. His gaze lands on Lark first, steady and direct, and something crushes my ribs before I can stop it.
Then he looks at me briefly. Enough to tell me he’s already decided I’m something he needs to account for.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” Lark replies.
Her voice is calm.
Controlled.
Nothing like it was in the truck last night. Nothing like it was in the kitchen when she was standing too close and not stepping back.
That shift shouldn’t bother me, but my chest has other ideas.
“You get much done yesterday?” Nolan asks.
“Started clearing the back hall,” she says. “There’s more damage than we thought.”
We. His gaze flicks toward me, then back to her, something sharpening in the line of his mouth before he smooths it out.
“I would’ve waited,” he says.
