Page 88 of At First Spark
I shift my weight, crossing my arms, trying to hold on to something steady.
“That’s not what this is.”
Hadley studies me long enough that it starts to feel like she’s reading something I haven’t even admitted to myself yet.
Then she nods.
“Okay.”
Just like that. No argument. No push. And somehow that feels worse than anything she could’ve said.
Thankfully, Hadley doesn’t linger. She finishes her coffee and exits through the front door, heading toward the family home on a UTV.
The drive to the inn feels longer this morning. Everything presses in a little closer—the trees, the road, the quiet stretch of water just visible through the gaps in the land. The town feels smaller than it did a few days ago, like it’s already started folding me into it in ways I didn’t plan for.
That should’ve been my first warning.
When the inn comes into view, I don’t immediately feel a jump in my chest at her grandeur. Instead, I feel an ache. An emptiness.
The Carrington House Inn is worn. Damaged. Waiting.
I step inside and immediately catch the sound of movement in the back hall. Nolan’s already working, crouched near the floor, tools spread out around him in a way that suggests he’s been here long enough to make changes I didn’t approve.
He glances up when I enter. His gaze sharpens almost immediately.
“You’re staying with him,” Nolan says.
No preamble. No soft entry. But his voice is different this morning. Less accusation. More exhaustion. Like he’s been carrying the sentence around for hours and hates that he has to set it between us at all.
I drop my bag on the table. “Yes.”
“Still?”
“Yes.”
His gaze drops briefly to my hands, then to my face. “Are you safe there?”
That’s not what I expected.
“Of course I’m safe.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“It literally was.”
He drags a hand through his hair, frustration flashing and then disappearing behind restraint. “I mean with him. Emotionally. Physically. All of it.”
The words hit somewhere deep in my stomach, sharp enough to steal my breath for a second. “Holt isn’t Michael.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
His face shifts. Not anger. Pain. “I know no one looks like Michael in the beginning. And I’m afraid when you get hurt,” he says, quieter now, “you won’t ask for help. You pack a bag, shut everyone out, and call it survival.”
I go still.
“That’s not fair.”
