He shrugs.
“Habit.”
“Or control.”
His gaze shifts to mine.
“Same thing.”
I hold it for a second longer than I should, then look away. Because the biggest mistake I could make right now would be to let Holt know that he’s affecting me.
Chapter Eight – Holt
By the time we leave the inn, the sun has dropped low enough to turn everything gold.
The light catches on the front windows, on the warped porch rail, on the broken edges of things Lark has spent all day trying to drag into some kind of order. It makes the old house look softer than it is. More forgiving. Less like a place that keeps revealing damage the deeper you dig into it.
I know better now.
So does she.
Still, she stands at the bottom of the porch steps with her notebook in one hand and the keys in the other, looking back at the house like she’s trying to leave and stay at the same time.
I give her a minute.
Rook noses at her leg, then trots down the walk and circles the truck like he’s already decided we’ve lingered long enough.
Lark exhales slowly and decides that I efficiently locked the front door.
“You check that thing three more times and it’ll file a complaint,” I say.
She turns toward me, one brow lifting. “That’s rich, coming from the man who checked the front gate, the truck, and the window boards before we left.”
“I have standards.”
“You have control issues.”
“That too.”
The corner of her mouth shifts.
There’s dust on her jeans, soot still faint at the edge of one wrist, and a line of exhaustion written through the set of her shoulders that she’s been trying to hide since about noon. I’ve been letting her get away with it because pushing too hard makes her dig in deeper.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed.
It also doesn’t mean I’m leaving it alone.
“You’re eating,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Again with the commands.”
I step around the hood of the truck and open the passenger door before she can reach for it herself. “Again with your refusal to admit you need obvious things.”
“I had crackers.”
“That was four hours ago.”
“I’m surviving.”
