Grayson resisted the urge to rub his forehead. Festivals were exhausting. “Uh…”
Lark, however, recovered quickly, stepping forward to cover the tasting for him. “Do you mind grabbing another case of Chardonnay from the truck?” she asked. “We’re almost out.”
They absolutely weren’t, but he was grateful for the escape she provided. He dawdled at the truck for a few minutes, pretended to be busy, until the coast was clear.
For the next hour or so, the crowd thinned as folks sought lunch at the food trucks. Since the line was short, he and Lark worked in tandem. She chatted while he poured. She guided people through the tastings with a confidence that somehow felt different from the version of her that he knew back home. She was softer, less performative, more genuine.
He continually found himself studying her whenever she wasn’t looking.
All of sudden, he was fascinated by the way she tucked her hair behind her ear while listening to someone. He was enamored by the little crease between her brows whenever she concentrated and the surprisingly elegant way she held a wineglass.
But more than that, he was captivated by her laugh. He’d always thought Lark’s laugh was loud, wild, almost manic. Today, he kept catching quieter versions. Soft little bursts that warmed him in a way he did not fully understand.
She leaned across him to grab a stack of tasting cards, and he caught the scent of her shampoo, something floral and clean.
His grip tightened on the wine bottle, shutting down this current line of thought.
Lark McCoy was still Lark McCoy, and she was definitely not for him.
Just because she’d temporarily stopped behaving like a human firecracker didn’t mean he should take leave of his senses.
“Earth to Grayson.”
He looked over to find her smirking at him.
“You’ve been holding that bottle in the air for ages. I was starting to wonder if you’d turned to stone or something.”
A customer chuckled.
Grayson immediately lowered the bottle and poured a small amount in a woman’s glass. “Maybe if it wasn’t so damn loud around here, I could focus.”
“And there he is,” Lark sighed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he grumbled.
“Grumpy seems to be the primary word La—er, people use when describing you.”
Grayson wasn’t sure that was entirely accurate.
Of course, it wasn’t inaccurate either.
Her comment should have irritated him, but instead, he felt himself fighting back a smile at the gentle way she poked at him.
By midafternoon, the post-lunch rush thinned again as a popular band started playing on the main stage. They both leaned back against the table, enjoying the brief lull.
“You’re doing a great job,” Grayson said sincerely.
She glanced at him, a little surprised. Not that her reaction was shocking. The two of them rarely interacted back home, but when they did, it was typically tinged with…well, barely there tolerance was the only way he could think to describe their relationship. They gave each other a wide berth whenever possible, because she rubbed him wrong and he did the same to her.
“Thanks,” she replied. “I’ve just been trying to follow your lead.”
“Which is something you’ve never said, done, or even considered before,” he joked.
She laughed, but it wasn’t her typical burst-your-eardrums volume. Again, this laugh was softer, sweeter. “You caught me on a bad day,” she tossed back, adding to his joke.
Silence settled again, but it wasn’t awkward. Just…comfortable.
“My mom would love this,” she said after a moment.
