Page 66 of At First Spark
I stand beside the truck for a second longer than necessary, my hand still on the handle. Holt shuts his door. The sound lands heavier than it should be.
Neither of us speaks. We both hear the screen door open before either of us can decide whether that silence is a relief or a problem.
A young woman steps out first. I know she has to be his sister before I even fully register her face because she moves with the same uncontained, unapologetic energy Holt hastucked away under control. It’s there in the swing of her arms, the quickness of her stride, the way she takes up space like she’s never once considered making herself smaller.
Behind her, Claire appears in the doorway, followed by three other women, one looking eerily familiar, lingering just over her shoulder.
For one absurd second, all I can think is that this feels less like arriving home and more like walking into an ambush orchestrated by women who absolutely know better and do it anyway.
The petite brunette beams the second she sees me.
“There she is.”
I blink until understanding dawns.
“Hi,” I say, which is not my most impressive contribution to the moment.
She takes the steps two at a time and heads straight for me like we’re already mid-conversation instead of barely acquainted. She stops just close enough to look me over, her gaze quick and bright and far more affectionate than I’m prepared for.
“I’m Hadley, Holt’s twin, and you look tired,” she says matter-of-factly. “And kind of smoky.”
I glance at Holt. He’s watching this unfold with an expression I can’t quite read. Something between resignation and amusement, like he knows exactly how this goes and has decided resistance would be useless.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Hadley makes a face. “That phrase should be illegal.” One of the women laughs softly behind her. “That’s my sister, Lila, and sister-in-law, Ivy.”
That’s why I recognized her. Ivy Quinn is a worldwide superstar. I’d heard she settled in a small town along the East Coast when she met her husband.
Lila crosses her arms and leans one shoulder against the doorframe. “It’s the family motto for everyone who absolutely is not.”
Ivy tips her head, studying me with those calm, observant eyes that miss more than they let on. “We could print it on a throw pillow.”
“That sounds aggressive,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words slip out dry enough to catch Bailey off guard into a short, surprised laugh.
Hadley grins wider. “You’re going to fit in here beautifully.”
That docks somewhere under my ribs, warm and uncomfortable and far too easy to want.
Claire saves me from having to respond.
“Inside,” she says, clapping her hands once. “You can all stand out there and stare at each other tomorrow. Dinner’s getting cold.”
I barely have time to linger as I’m escorted inside by Hadley. Family photos hang on every available space in the foyer and hall. The expansive kitchen feels smaller with all of them in it, but not in a crowded way. In a lived-in one. The table has been extended. Extra plates are already set out. Something savory and rich hangs in the air, mixing with butter and herbs and the faint sweetness of cornbread cooling on a rack by the stove.
Claire moves through the room like a conductor with no need to raise her voice to keep the orchestra in line. Bailey sets a bowl on the table. Lila reaches up to grab glasses from thecabinet without asking where they are. Ivy slides into motion near the sink, filling a pitcher with water while Hadley pulls me down into the chair beside her before I can decide where I belong.
Holt ends up across from me, not casting a single glance in my direction. That might make it worse. But I’m aware of him anyway. Of the soot that still clings faintly along one edge of his neck. Of the way his forearms bracket his plate when he sits. Of the fact that I know exactly what his mouth felt like less than two hours ago, and now I’m supposed to pretend I don’t.
That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. Because not looking doesn’t mean not noticing.
I feel it anyway—subtle, quiet, constant. The way his attention tracks without ever settling long enough for anyone else to call it out. The way his focus shifts when I speak, even if his eyes don’t.
And when I finally risk a glance, just once, he’s already looking. Not long enough for anyone else to catch it. But enough to feel like a swift kick against my breastbone, like I’ve stepped into something I don’t fully understand yet.
This is impossible.
