Page 69 of At First Spark
“He used to jump off the hayloft into those old feed sacks because he thought it made him look fearless,” Hadley says, grinning into her cup. “Broke his wrist at seventeen and still tried to tell everyone he slipped rescuing a cat.”
I look up from the book I haven’t actually read a page of. “There was no cat.”
“Absolutely no cat,” Lila confirms from the armchair by the window.
Bailey slides a stack of new releases onto a nearby display. “There should’ve been a cat. It would’ve improved the story.”
Ivy glances over the rim of her mug. “He does have cat-rescue energy, though.”
The image hits me before I can stop it. A younger Holt, all loose limbs and foolish confidence, jumping before thinking because some part of him expected the landing to figure itself out.
My mouth curves. I shouldn’t know exactly what that version of him would look like, but I do anyway.
“And now he lectures me about common sense,” I mutter.
Hadley’s grin goes feral. “Oh, he likes you.”
The room goes still around that sentence in a way only I seem to notice. I take a sip of coffee to buy time. Bailey smothers a smile. Lila looks down at the pastry in her hand. Ivy doesn’t even pretend that she’s not watching for my reaction.
“I’m revising my statement,” I say. “You’re all impossible.”
“No,” Hadley says. “We’re observant.”
That word again. I hate how much I hear his voice in it.
By the time I get dropped off back at Holt’s house to get my car and head back to the inn that afternoon, Nolan is already there waiting for me. I don’t even want to think about how Nolan managed to bully the realtor into handing over the contractor's spare key yesterday after deciding I clearly “wasn’t answering my phone enough.”
I should be irritated by his overprotectiveness. Instead, I’m mostly tired.
He’s in the front hall when I step through the door, measuring tape in one hand, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear while he talks through scheduling with a supplier who sounds deeply incompetent from what little I catch.
He glances up, spots me, and immediately wraps the call with the kind of efficiency that used to impress me before it started exhausting me.
“Morning,” he says.
“It’s afternoon.”
He glances at his watch. “Technically.”
I set my bag down and study him. There’s a coffee waiting on the front table beside the plans. My usual order. No comment attached. No smug expression. Just there.
That’s Nolan in a nutshell. Annoying enough to make me want to argue. Thoughtful enough to make it complicated.
He’s already stacked trim samples by the wall, laid out fresh notes on the front table, and opened every first-floor window despite the humidity trying to fight him for it.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Trying to get ahead of the rain.” His gaze moves over me once, not intrusive, but careful. “And trying to make sure you don’t walk into another problem before breakfast.”
His answer holds a little too much edge to pass as casual.
I meet his gaze. “If you have something to say, go ahead.”
He exhales once and sets the tape down. “You stayed at his place.”
I still.
Nolan’s voice isn’t sharp, exactly. It’s too controlled for that. Too careful. Like he knows this is a line, and he’s already bracing for me to shove him back over it.
