“The drunk people stumbling into tents?” he asked.
She shot him an amused looked. “No. This time of the day. It’s a lot less crowded now, so we can appreciate the atmosphere, the lights, the music. Everyone’s relaxing and having a good time.”
Grayson glanced out at the crowd, trying to see what she did. He couldn’t. “It just looks sticky and loud to me.”
“You have the soul of an eighty-year-old man.”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
God knew his brothers had lodged that same complaint at him enough in his life, usually when he turned down their invitations to join them at Whiskey Abbey or to drive over to one of the bars in Henley Falls.
She laughed at his response, and this time he caught himself staring outright.
Because she looked beautiful.
Not in the flashy, obvious way he normally associated with Lark. Today, there was something softer about her. The cooler evening breeze had put some color in her cheeks, and a few strands of blonde hair had escaped whatever effort she’d made in taming it this morning.
And her eyes…
He’d never noticed how blue they were before.
Not pale blue but storm-cloud blue. Deep and impossible to ignore, now that he was really looking.
A customer waved, breaking his attention.
Thank God.
Another rush hit, and suddenly the line stretched halfway down the tent row, forcing both of them into nonstop motion. Despite the chaos, they continued to work well together. She anticipated what he needed before he asked. Fresh bottles appeared at his elbow, empty boxes vanished. When he reached for tasting cards, she was already handing them over. It was seamless, natural, and dangerously easy.
At one point, he glanced over to find a guy around her age, openly flirting.
“You should come check out my booth once the festival winds down,” the man said, flashing a grin too polished to be trustworthy. “I’ve got a bottle of Cabernet with our names on it.”
Lark smiled politely. He thought for a moment she was going to turn the guy down, but then she glanced quickly in Grayson’s direction and changed course.
“Tempting,” she said, in true Lark fashion.
Nope. Not happening.
“She’s busy,” he snapped. “Working.” The words came out harder than intended. Both Lark and the man stared at him.
An awkward beat passed, then the guy lifted both hands in surrender. “Okay, man. Message received.”
He wandered across the way and immediately started flirting with the woman selling festival merchandise.
“You sounded like an angry caveman,” she mused.
“You are working. This isn’t a club, Lark. You’re not here to pick up men.”
“That’s not what—” she started.
But he was still pissed off about the interaction. “He was holding up the line,” he interrupted, trying to downplay her comment about him being a caveman. Mainly because it had hit a little too close to the mark.
Lark looked over her shoulder, pointedly, making sure he saw what she did—which was no one standing in line.
“Right,” she said, turning back to him, her lips twitching.
The little minx was teasing him, and it was just too adorable to resist.
