Page 75 of At First Spark
The sight of her hits somewhere low and sharp in my chest, stealing the air from my lungs for half a second. This—this is who she is beneath all the walls. Soft in a way she doesn’t let people see. “She trusts you,” I say.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“Animals know.”
Lark glances back at me with a steadier gaze now. Something less frantic.
“That sounds like something your mother would say.”
I huff out a quiet breath. “It is.”
A small smile pulls at her mouth, then fades.
“You can’t do that again,” she says.
I don’t pretend I don’t know what she means.
“Why?”
“BecauseIcan’t do this. I can’t make a mistake like this again.”
I look at her. At the way she’s standing there, hand still resting lightly against Tabby, like she’s grounding herself in something simpler because everything else feels too complicated. There’s a history in her words. I want to know more, but I know she’s not going to share.
“You believe that,” I say.
“I have to.”
I nod once, then I step back. Because if I don’t, I’m not sure I could honor her wishes. And the last thing I need is to disappoint another person.
Chapter Thirteen – Lark
I don’t look at him when we walk back from the barn. That’s the first decision I make. A necessary one. The kind of choice that feels small until it’s the only thing holding everything else in place.
There is stillness in the house when we step inside, the warmth of it pressing in around us after the cool night air, carrying the faint scent of Holt.
He moves past me toward the sink, and I head down the hall. No good night. No lingering. No chance for either of us to pretend we don’t know exactly what would happen if we stayed in the same room too long.
My door closes behind me with a soft click, sounding louder than it should. I lean back against it for a second. My pulse is still too fast. My mouth still feels like his. My body—
I push away from the thought before it can finish.
“This is temporary,” I say quietly into the empty room. I just need to get the inn to a place where the inspector will approve me residing there again.
The words don’t land the way they did before. They feel like something I’m trying to convince myself of.
Rook watches me from the bed, unimpressed.
“Not helpful,” I mutter.
He thumps his tail once and drops his head back down like he’s decided I’ll figure it out eventually or not at all.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. It doesn’t come at all for a long time.
Morning hits harder.
I move through it on instinct—shower, clothes, coffee—keeping everything efficient so I don’t have to think too much about last night, about the way Holt stepped back instead of forward, about the fact that I didn’t want him to.
That part is the problem, the fact that I wanted it to keep going. That Iwould have let it.
