Page 45 of At First Spark
Chapter Seven – Lark
I step into the kitchen and stop just inside the doorway.
Holt stands at the stove, one hand braced on the counter, the other moving through a pan with ease. Eggs. Toast. Something simple. Something steady. The kind of routine that doesn’t ask questions.
“Morning,” he says without turning.
“Morning.”
My voice sounds normal. Too normal.
I move farther into the room, setting my bag down near the chair, letting my hands find something to do—pulling out a plate, reaching for a fork—anything that keeps me from standing still long enough to feel the weight of yesterday settle back in.
The smell of butter and pepper hangs in the air. Holt slides a plate across the counter toward me. I step closer at the same time he reaches for the pepper.
Our hands brush. It’s nothing. Barely contact. The back of my fingers against his. But it lands heavier than it should. Immediate. Sharp.
I pull back first. Too fast.
“Sorry,” I say.
“You’re fine.”
He doesn’t move right away. Neither do I. The moment stretches. Just long enough to notice it. Just long enough to know we both felt it.
I grab the pepper instead, shaking it over the eggs like I didn’t just lose my grip on something as simple as reaching across a counter.
Holt clears his throat softly and reaches for the salt this time, like we’ve silently agreed to adjust the choreography.
We eat at the counter. Not in silence. Not in conversation either. Somewhere in between. Comfortable if I don’t look too closely at it.
“Back to the inn today,” I say after a minute, keeping my focus on the plate in front of me.
Holt nods once.
“That’s what I figured.”
“There’s more to pull up in the back hall,” I add. “And I want to check how far the damage spread under the stairs.”
“Then we start there.”
Simple. Direct. Safe.
I set my fork down.
“I’ll drive.”
Holt glances up.
“No, you won’t.”
I blink.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
His mouth curves slightly. Not amused. Not argumentative.
“Still no,” he says.
