She looks at me for a second, brows raised, waiting for more.
I nod toward the blueprints. “I need to show Lark I’m staying, right? This is one way I can do that.”
Wren studies me for a beat before folding the papers and tucking them under her arm. Then she glances back at the house, lets out a slow breath, and shakes her head.
“Well,” she says, stretching her arms before clapping her hands together, “Guess we oughta make hay while the sun shines.”
Chapter 11
LARK
The glare from my laptop screen stings, but I don’t shut it. My eyes are dry, my head aches, and my whole body feels wrung out, but I keep staring at the spreadsheet in front of me like maybe—maybe—if I look hard enough, the numbers will magically change.
They don’t.
I run a hand through my hair, pressing my fingers into my scalp, trying to keep the frustration from boiling over. My brain is mush, my nerves are shot, and I have exactly nothing to show for it.
I was up half the night looking for new vendors, and I’ve spent the better part of the morning calling every supplier I could find. Not one worked out.
The biggest ones? Already locked into contracts with Wendell Tate.
The smaller ones? Not much better.
One doesn’t deliver this far west.
Another couldmaybesqueeze me in next quarter.
A third quoted me double what I was paying before.
I’m screwed. I’m so screwed.
I scroll through my spreadsheet again, looking at the numbers I’ve already trimmed down to bare bones. I’ve cut every unnecessary expense I can think of—new dishware, the second coffee grinder I wanted toinvest in, the storage room shelves that have been wobbling for weeks but haven’t completely fallen apart yet.
I let out a long breath, pressing my fingers into my temples. There has to be a way to make this work. A way to stretch what I have until I figure something else out. But the numbers don’t lie, and they don’t leave much room for optimism either.
Rent. Payroll. Utilities. The non-negotiables.
Those will clear out most of the account by the end of the month. That leaves me with a handful of options, none of them good. I could dip into what little savings I have left—the money I’ve been hoarding for emergencies. Though I guess this counts as an emergency. It’s not like I was saving up for a vacation. I’d set that money aside for when the freezer finally gives out for good, or when the espresso machine decides to die in the middle of a morning rush.
Not for this. Not for survival.
I drop my head into my hands, pressing my palms against my eyes until all I see is black. I need a solution. A miracle. A supplier who isn’t already up Wendell Tate’s ass.
I lift my head and glance around the office, at the overstuffed filing cabinet in the corner, the shelves cluttered with old invoices, the coffee mug rings staining the desk where Alice used to sit. She’d run this place with grit and grace, never letting anything shake her, never letting anyone see when she was struggling.
She’d know what to do.
Except she’s not here, and I have no idea what she’d tell me other than the thing I already know: figure it out.
I push away from the desk, pressing my fingers into the small of my back, stretching against the stiffness creeping up my spine. Sitting here isn’t helping. Staring at numbers that refuse to cooperate isn’t helping. Thinking about how royally fucked I am sure as hell isn’t helping. But my brain won’t shut off, won’t stop running through every possible worst-case scenario, and now—because the universe seems determined to make this day even harder than it already is—it’s decided to latch onto Boone.
It’s been days since I saw him. Days since I let him back into my space, since I let myself get caught up in the heat of his touch, the weight of his body pressing against mine like it hadn’t been twelve years. It was almost like he hadn’t left, like I hadn’t spent more nights than I care to admit wishing I could hate him.
I haven’t talked to him since. Not about anything that didn’t involve Hudson, anyway. I don’t know if that was intentional on his end or if maybe we both just needed the space, needed to let things settle before we said something we couldn’t take back.
But settling doesn’t seem to be happening, at least not in my head.
I rub the back of my neck, like maybe that’ll help shake the memory loose. But it’s been living rent-free in my head since the second he touched me. The way his hands moved like they still belonged on my skin. The way his mouth found my neck, lower, slower, like we’d never stopped knowing each other. It was like no time had passed and slipping back into me was second nature.
