Page 88 of Lost Then Found
“Then he’s shit out of luck,” she says, leaning back and stretching her arms behind her head. “Worst he can do is make your life a living hell. Toss some legal threats your way, try to outbid you for supplies, make backhanded comments about howyou’ll regret thisin that big fish in a small pond way that fuckers like him love.”
I exhale, drumming my fingers against my desk. “Great. So basically, he’ll just be a persistent pain in my ass.”
Miller shrugs. “You say that like it’s something new.”
I snort. “So what, I just tell him no thanks and brace for impact?”
“You tell himhell noand brace for impact,” she corrects, giving me a pointed look. “And don’t let him intimidate you. He’s powerful, but you’re smart. And you’ve got me.” She taps the folders with a manicured nail. “And I love yelling at grown men. Made a living out of it, actually.”
She pushes back from the desk, stretching like this little meeting has been a minor inconvenience in her otherwise thrilling day. “Alright, babe. I’m taking another lemon bar as payment for my services.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I appreciate you looking into all of this. I know you’re busy.”
She waves me off like I just suggested something ridiculous. “Never too busy for my best gal.” She plucks another lemon bar off the plate and takes a big bite, making an exaggerated moan. “Fuck. If you ever do sell, you should go into the bakery business.”
I shake my head, smirking. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She chews thoughtfully, then dusts the crumbs off her fingers before reaching for me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a quick, fierce hug. I let myself melt into it, just for a second.
She pulls back, squeezing my arms. “You’re a tough bitch, Lark. You’re gonna be fine. And if you’re not, call me, and I’ll be on my way.”
“I love you,” I say, because I do and there’s no one else I’d rather have in my corner.
Miller lifts a hand over her shoulder as she heads for the door. “I know,” she calls back, without even turning around.
The door swings shut behind her, and I sit there for a moment, staring at my reflection in the small mirror hung on the wall. My shoulders are straighter than they were before.
“Youarea tough bitch, Lark Westwood,” I tell myself. But the truth is, tough bitches don’t sit around waiting for the sky to fall.
So I keep busy. Wipe down the counter even though it’s already clean. Refill the salt and pepper shakers. Adjust the coffee cups stacked beside the brewer. Josie, one of our waitresses, eyes me from across the diner,brows raised, and I know what she’s thinking.
I ignore her.
Outside, the afternoon light slants through the windows, golden and steady, painting long streaks over the booths. A few customers linger, their forks scraping against plates, the low hum of conversation blending with Patsy Cline playing softly from the record player. I keep moving, keep my hands busy, keep my breath steady.
Then the door swings open.
I hear his boots first, the heavy sound of them against the tile. Wendell Tate, in his usual Stetson, white button-up, and Levi jeans with a briefcase in one hand, looking like the kind of man who’s spent his entire life getting exactly what he wants.
He carries himself like someone who’s never had to be told no.
Which makes this all the more satisfying.
Josie straightens behind the register, eyeing him like she can already tell this is not a friendly drop-in. I catch her gaze and nod toward the counter. “Keep an eye on things for a bit?”
She hesitates, glancing at Tate, then back at me. “Yeah. Of course.”
I untie my apron, running my hands over the front of it before tossing it onto a stool. My fingers curl into fists at my sides for just a second. Then I let them go.
You are a tough bitch.
Tate grins when he sees me, standing from the booth with a slow, practiced ease. “Lark,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “Pleasure as always.”
His grip is firm. A businessman’s handshake. I match it, squeezing harder than necessary.
“Wendell,” I say evenly.
He gestures for me to sit across from him, and as I do, my eyes flick to the manila folders stacked neatly on the table between us. Another contract, probably. More paperwork meant to convince me that selling the Bluebell is the best decision I’ll ever make.
