A short laugh bubbles out of Lark—tired but real. I raise my brows. “Please. If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn’t use the damn creek. I’m not an idiot.”
“Well, if my Louboutin’s go missing, I’m haunting the fuck out of this place,” Miller says, pulling the door open. She steps through it, then glances over her shoulder and adds, “Just so we’re clear.”
Lark’s half-smile sticks as she leans against the counter, arms loosely crossed. Her eyes find mine just before I step out, and something passes between us. Quiet. Grounding.
I follow Miller out into the sun, the heat thick and steady on my skin, but my thoughts stay inside with Lark. Everything in me wants to walk right back in, cook her something warm and simple, set it in front of her without needing her to talk. Or she could talk my damn ear off if that’s what made her feel better. Then I could take her upstairs when the house quiets down, slide into bed beside her, her body pressed into mine, legs tangled, her breath slow and steady against my chest. I want to give her that—no questions, no noise. Just stillness. Just us.
But she’s not breakable. She never has been. She’s one of the most resilient people I’ve ever known.
She’s just bruised—and bruises heal.
I’ll make damn sure of it.
Chapter 26
LARK
The bell above the front door jingles again, and I don’t even look up. My hands are busy, mind half-tuned to the register and half-tracking the vinyl crackling softly behind me. I felt like hearing something real this morning—something with a little soul to it—so I threw on a Sam Cooke record instead of the usual radio.
God, I missed this.
The Bluebell has its heartbeat back, every booth full, the counter lined with regulars and a few tourists we haven’t scared off yet. The windows are still fogged in the corners from the morning rush, string lights flickering above them. I feelhome.
Finn and Josie are weaving through tables with plates balanced on their arms like pros, and Opal’s shouting something unintelligible from the kitchen, probably about a missing order of sausage. I should go check, but I’m pinned to the counter with a smile that won’t leave my face. My feet hurt. My shoulders ache. I think my left thumb might be permanently stained from Sharpie. I’ve never been happier.
The new suppliers finally came through last week. They’re not ideal—one needs invoices submitted by fax, which makes me feel like I’m living in 1985, and the other refuses to deliver on Sundays—but it’s workable. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine again.
A soft cough pulls my focus, and I glance up to find Mr. Weller leaning across the counter, his elbows planted, coffee mug in hand. He’s got a grin tugging at one side of his mouth like he’s trying not to look too pleased with himself.
“Gotta say, Lark,” he says, tilting his mug, “it’s damn good to have this place open again. You’ve been missed.”
I laugh, reaching for the coffeepot to top him off. “Thanks, Tom. Rosie’s cafe treated you just fine while we were out, though, didn’t it?”
He leans in a little, voice dropping like he’s telling me a secret. “Rosie’s doesn’t butter the pancakes right or add chocolate chips. And the bacon?” He grimaces. “Not even a little unhinged. Practically normal. Where’s the fun in that?”
I shake my head, biting back another laugh. “So you missed our unhinged bacon.”
“Damn right I did.” He lifts his mug in a mock toast. “To chaotic bacon.”
I lift my own invisible glass and clink it with his. The door swings open in a flurry of movement—one frazzled mom wrangling two kids under the age of six, one of whom is already red-faced and barreling toward the counter like her life depends on it. She’s got tangled curls and sneakers that light up when she runs, and her cheeks are flushed with determination.
“Can I have an ice cream cone?” she gasps out, gripping the counter like she just crossed a finish line.
The mom, juggling a squirming toddler on one hip and a diaper bag the size of Montana, calls after her without looking. “You need to eatrealfood first, Ava!”
Ava plants her feet. “But I want ice cream!”
The mom sighs, swiping her hair off her forehead and shifting the toddler to the other hip. “You know what? Fine. It’s not worth the fight. Give her the cone.”
I laugh, already reaching for the scooper. “We’ve all been there.”
Then I lean down and snag a lollipop from the jar we keep under the counter. Alice used to do this for crying babies and squirmy toddlers—called it her peace offering. She said it worked nine times outof ten. I hold it out to the little boy, who’s got tears shining in his eyes and a tight grip on his mom’s shirt.
“Hey, bud,” I say gently, “you want a lollipop?”
He freezes, eyes darting from the candy to my face like he can’t believe his luck. Then he nods once, solemn and reverent, before reaching out with sticky fingers.
“You’re a saint,” the mom mutters, dragging a chair out with one foot and dropping her bag onto it like it personally offended her.
