“Fine,” Wren conceded. She’d find some way to sneak the money back to her sister.
“I’m driving up to Pittsburgh right after I finish cleaning cabins with Remi in the morning,” Lark said. “If you have any questions, just call or text me. Okay?”
Wren nodded. “Okay.”
Sadly, she was going to have to put away the juicy Grace Decker novel she’d just started reading and study the damn winery notes all day tomorrow at work.
“I’m going to leave the wine with you so you can taste them again tomorrow and get familiar with the flavors,” Lark said, gesturing to the five open bottles. “I’ll swing by on Monday to pick up whatever’s left.” She gave her a playful grin. “Wouldn’t want them to go to waste.”
Wren shook her head, smiling. “I’ll try not to reach out unless absolutely necessary. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this concert.”
Lark gave her a hug, squeezing her so tight she couldn’t breathe for a second. “You really are the greatest sister on the whole planet.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’ll be a miracle if I manage to pull this off.”
Lark flipped her hair over her shoulder as she made her way to the door. “I don’t doubt you for a second. After all, you’re forgetting. When we pulled this prank as kids, you were the one who sold the act. I’m the one who always screwed up and gave us away.”
It seemed like a lifetime since she and Lark were those mischievous little girls, both lively and funny and, well…basically feral. Sometimes, Wren wondered who she’d be now if?—
She stopped that line of thinking, refusing to dredge up ancient history.
“Bye, Wrennie.”
“Have fun and be safe,” Wren replied.
Lark left, and the apartment was instantly quiet and calm. That was usually when Wren started to relax again, but that wasn’t going to happen tonight, as her anxiety over the coming weekend kicked in.
“This is going to be a disaster,” Wren said to herself, leaning against the door. “A fucking disaster.”
Chapter Three
They were three hours into their four-hour drive when Grayson decided there was definitely something off about Lark. Actually, he’d suspected it right from the get-go, when she’d slid into the passenger seat of his truck and didn’t say anything more than a cheery hello.
For three damn hours, she hadn’t made a single smart-ass comment about his driving. Hadn’t taken a jab at him for his music selections. She hadn’t even demanded he stop for coffee at one of the countless Starbucks they’d passed, even though he knew the woman was fueled almost exclusively by the overpriced, overly sweetened iced caramel macchiatos they sold.
Crossing into the left lane to pass a slower car, he merged in, then side-eyed her. “You okay?”
His question seemed to jolt her, as she jumped slightly. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Just thinking.”
Thinking?
That was new.
Grayson had been around Lark enough to know that she didn’t think. She reacted. Loudly. Colorfully. Usually with a biting comment that left him equal parts irritated and, while he’d never admit it, amused.
His suspicions grew, pricking under his skin, as he waited for Lark to expound. When he glanced in her direction again, making it clear he expected more, she flushed.
What the fuck was that?
Lark McCoy didn’t blush. If anything, she was the one making off-color comments and dirty jokes that made others turn red.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, unsure if he was more curious about her comment or her flushed cheeks.
“Oh, um, just about the festival.”
He snorted, assuming she was joking, so he waited for her to hit him with some punch line.
Nothing came.
