Page 57 of At First Spark
“Yeah.”
I glance toward the counter where Nolan’s now leaning one shoulder against the pie case, talking to Marlene like he belongs here too.
“Seems invested.”
Lark’s mouth tightens. “That’s one word for it.”
And just like that, whatever this diner stop was supposed to be has changed shape again. Good. Messy. Interesting.
I pick up a fry and eat it while I watch her decide how much she wants to say.
I have a feeling I’m about to find out whether this dinner ends with pie or with trouble.
Chapter Nine – Lark
The truck is quieter on the way back. I sit angled toward the window, watching the road slide past in dim streaks of light and shadow, the town easing back into darkness one storefront at a time. The reflection in the glass shows more of the inside of the truck than what’s outside of it.
Holt’s hands on the wheel. The set of his jaw. The way his gaze doesn’t move from the road, like he’s decided something and doesn’t plan to explain it unless I force him to.
“You didn’t tell me he was coming,” he says finally.
The words aren’t sharp. They’re worse. Measured. I keep my eyes on the window.
“I didn’t know he was coming.” I exhale slowly. “You want a full rundown of every person who might show up in town while I’m here?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The truck hums under us. Gravel shifts as we turn off the main road toward the farm, the tires crunching in a steady rhythm that fills the silence long enough for me to think better of the question.
“I want to know if I’m about to get blindsided,” he says.
I turn my head slightly, just enough to see the edge of his profile.
“You weren’t blindsided.”
“He knew me.”
“You’re not exactly hard to find information on in this town.”
“That’s not what that was.”
No. It wasn’t. I don’t answer. Because if I do, I have to explain something I’m not ready to unpack in the middle of a truck ride with tension sitting this close to the surface.
Holt exhales through his nose.
“That guy doesn’t look like he lets things go easy,” he says.
I let out a quiet breath that almost qualifies as a laugh.
“That’s a very diplomatic way of putting it.”
His gaze flicks toward me for half a second.
“You going to tell me what he is to you?”
The question hangs there. Simple. Direct. Impossible to answer cleanly.
