Page 21 of Freeing Lark

Haley pointed at him. “I’ll get you more information on your girl ASAP.”

Hoot’s head snapped toward her. “Don’t start. She’s not my anything.”

Haley smiled. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“She isn’t my girl,” Hoot reiterated.

“Future girl?”

“No.”

“Potential girl?”

“Absolutely not.”

Eggs leaned toward Spark. “This is going to be fun.”

Hoot ignored him. “She’s not my anything,” he tried again.

Haley grinned. “Yet.”

“Ever.”

She laughed. Hoot leaned back and stared at the ceiling. This was ridiculous. Lark wasn’t his anything. She wasn’t going to be his anything. There was an attraction, he wouldn’t deny that. He’d noticed her. Any man with functioning eyesight—and a dick—would have.

But attraction wasn’t a relationship. It wasn’t a reason to get involved. And it certainly wasn’t a reason to let himself become entangled with a woman whose past appeared to intersect with one of their clients.

Especially when something about those photographs bothered him. Something about the way Lark stood beside Bradley Whitmore. Something about the absence of a smile. Something about the way her eyes seemed to be saying something the rest of her face refused to reveal.

Hoot had learned long ago to trust that instinct. The same instinct that had warned him before missions. The same instinct that had kept him alive. And right now, it was telling him one thing. There was more to Lark Meadows than met the eye.

Unfortunately, he was beginning to suspect he wanted to know exactly what that was.

CHAPTER 7

Lark stepped back from the display window and studied the arrangement of ceramic birds she’d spent the better part of the morning positioning.

“Too many birds.” She moved two. “Still too many.” She moved one back, then tilted her head to study the display. Nodding, she muttered, “Perfect.”

She smiled. This was what she loved. No condescending voices telling her the display was too whimsical. No one asking why she couldn’t do something practical with her life. No one suggesting that art was a hobby rather than a career.

Just her. Her store. Her rules. The sign above the front door still read Coming Soon, but she was getting close. Very close.

She walked around the front half of the narrow storefront which would be the retail space, filled with paintings, pottery, jewelry, textiles, woodwork, sculpture, and every strange, wonderful creation local artists could dream up.

After passing through the door at the back of the retail area, she took a quick look into the first space. The back half of the commercial property she had leased was even more important. A cooperative workspace. Artists could rent tables and workstations without having to afford an entire studio of their own. They could share tools, ideas, materials, and—perhaps most importantly—company.

Smiling, she pushed open the last door, traversed the steps to the second floor, and walked into her sanctuary. Her own private studio. The wall of windows that overlooked the street drew her attention immediately. It was the reason she had rented the building from the start. Light spilled into the space, warming her from the inside out.

The room smelled faintly of metal, clay, wood, and sawdust. Half-finished sculptures occupied every available surface. Wire figures hung from the ceiling. A welded steel bird sat beside a clay torso. Pieces of salvaged glass waited in bins for inspiration to strike.

Situated next to the staircase she had just climbed was a small kitchen area. Just enough space for one person to cook and eat meals. Across from that space was a short hallway housing her bedroom and bathroom.

It wasn’t glamorous but it was hers. That distinction mattered.

Lark had spent most of her life being told what she should want. What she should study. How she should dress. How she should behave. Even who she should date.

There were certain criteria as to what kind of woman the Meadows family expected her to become. Her family had money. The kind of money that bought influence, opened doors, and made problems disappear.