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Tiny particles of dust floated up when I sighed again.
Looks like I just found my cleaning crew.
9
WYATT
I could seeLark plain as day, creeping on us from the apartment’s kitchen window that overlooked the driveway and main house. She may have thought she was stealthy, but my eye flicked to the upper level with every flutter of the thin, ruffled curtains.
I made quick work of unloading the car. Penny hauled her light-blue suitcase with flowers on it up the front porch steps and chatted away at Kevin, who stayed quiet and nodded at whatever she was rambling on about.
As we unloaded, I gestured the boys toward the house and silently hoped this summer wasn’t the shit show it was lined up to be. Kevin, Michael, and Joey filed inside, and I couldn’t help but notice when Lark bounded happily down the rickety steps of the old barn apartment. A flash of her stumbling on the steep, nearly rotted wood made my shoulders bunch. I’d have to find a way to fix the worst spots without her noticing.
Don’t want her suing Tootie and all.
She was dressed for another run, and a prickle of awareness crept down my forearms. Her tight black leggings left zero room for imagination, and they hugged every one of her dangerous curves. My jaw flexed. Even her top rode high on her rib cage. It was hot enough today that she didn’t bother with another hoodie. When Joey stopped dead in his tracks to take his own look, I clamped a hand on his shoulder and helped him forward with a light shove.
“Go on in.”
Joey nodded and I followed behind him, though my eyes stayed glued to Lark the entire time she made her way to the small opening of the trailhead at the back of the property. My eyes scanned above the trees. We were headed into summer, but it was getting late, and the evening sun was already dipping over the tree line. I pushed down the small wave of worry and shook my head as I followed my unlikely foursome into the house.
Hopefully, the woman would keep her clothes on this time.
* * *
It was toodark for Lark to still be out on her run.
Pickle and the boys had settled into their rooms by dumping their duffel bags in the middle of the floor. Penny would have the room closest to mine, and the boys had opted for sharing the finished loft on the top floor of the old farmhouse.
Little did they know, that damn loft squeaked and groaned with the lightest footsteps. There’d be no sneaking out and finding trouble if the thought dared to cross their minds. It was my job to keep them healthy and out of trouble for a few months so they wouldn’t have the opportunity to throw away their careers before they even started, and I was taking it seriously—whether they liked it or not.
I wasn’t such a hard-ass that I was keeping them under lock and key, but unfortunately for them it also meant check-ins and curfews. Earlier tonight they had piled into Michael’s beat-up car and headed into town. Knowing the tourist season hadn’t ramped up quite yet, and without the influx of people keeping the businesses open, there was very little to do in Outtatowner. I was betting they’d be back in an hour. Two, tops.
When I stepped onto the porch, my eyes darted to the dark window of Lark’s apartment, and worry settled in my neck. With Penny tucked in bed, I snagged a beer from the fridge and sat on the top step. My back leaned against the post, and I looked out across the yard toward the small opening in the trees that served as the trailhead.
If she wasn’t home by the time the boys got back, I was going looking for her. The crushed limestone path was easy to follow during the day, but I had no clue what her navigational skills were, and the last thing I needed was for her to get lost or break her neck. The moon was full, but the canopy of the trees allowed very little light to shine through onto the trail.
I took a sip of my beer and tried to quell the overprotective, intrusive thoughts that crept up. Normally those nagged me only when Penny was away or she was going somewhere new without me.
I’ll just drown them out with a beer.
When it wasn’t doing the trick, I set the bottle aside. As I was about to stand, the sound of an off-key rendition of “Neon Moon” floated across the yard. I squinted and tried to see through the thick darkness.
The song coursed through me, and a hazy, distant memory of bouncing in the front seat of my father’s beat-up old truck flooded my brain. I’d loved riding shotgun in Dad’s old Ford. He’d pop in a cassette of George Strait or Tim McGraw or Brooks & Dunn while I hung out the window and made an airplane of my arms.
The memory was like a bruise, and I swept it aside as soon as the chartreuse yellow of Lark’s tennis shoes contrasted against the dark grass. She was hauling ass across the yard, still singing.
Loudly.
I settled back into my darkened spot, watching her as she crossed the grass and stopped on the gravel between the barn and the house.
She huffed out a deep sigh and bent at the waist to catch her breath.
I grunted in frustration. “Kind of dark for a walk.” I internally flinched at my own words, sounding like more of a prick than I’d meant to.
Lark’s startled scream rang through the night air, and she jumped back and clutched her chest.
“Whoa. Sorry.” I lifted my hand. “It’s me. Wyatt.”
