Grayson finally laughed, shaking his head. “Very funny, little bird,” he said, uncertain where that term of endearment had come from. Not that it mattered. It fit her perfectly.
She bit her lower lip but didn’t remark on the pet name. They held each other’s gazes, and it was Grayson who looked away first.
A little while later, during another lull, Lark grabbed two bottles of water from the cooler beneath the counter and handed him one.
“The crowd loves you,” she said.
He scoffed. “They tolerate me.”
She shook her head. “No. You’re wrong. You’ve really got a way of talking about the wine that shows how much you believe in it…and in the traditions that go behind making it.”
He wasn’t sure what to do with the compliment, so he brushed it aside, even though it meant a lot to him. “You seem pretty energetic for someone who’s been on her feet all day.”
“I’m having fun.” There was something in her tone that told Grayson she was both sincere and surprised by that.
“You always have fun,” he pointed out.
She nodded, but it came slowly. “I like watching people, hearing their stories, seeing them connect with the wine.”
Grayson was forced to admit this festival hadn’t been the disaster he’d expected. “Yeah. I like that too.”
Her expression softened, and for one suspended second, the noise around them faded into the background. The music, the crowd, and the clink of glasses all disappeared beneath the strange awareness pulling tight between them.
Grayson didn’t understand what the hell was happening today, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
The woman standing next to him was not the person he thought she was.
And that was a problem.
A big one.
Chapter Four
Wren had spent the better part of the day trying to remember every complaint Lark had ever made about Grayson—and coming up frustratingly short.
It didn’t make sense.
Because from where Wren stood, shoulder to shoulder with him inside the bustling serving tent, with the festival humming around them, Grayson was…easy.
That was the only word for it. Because he was easy to talk to, easy to stand beside, easy to exist with.
Which, frankly, was unsettling.
Wren didn’t do easy when it came to men. Not strangers or acquaintances or anyone who wasn’t safely kept at arm’s length.
And yet here she was, close enough that she could feel the heat of him every time he reached for another bottle. She should’ve been counting down the seconds until she could escape.
Instead, she found herself lingering.
“You can pour a little more in each cup,” Grayson murmured, as she tilted a bottle.
Wren glanced down, aware she was offering what amounted to a “her” pour, not a “Lark” pour. She was fine with mere sips, while Lark would eschew the glass and chug straight from the bottle if left to her own devices.
“Oops,” she said lightly, flashing what she hoped passed for her sister’s easy grin.
“You’re usually the one pouring with a heavy hand.” There was a teasing note in his voice, but it was soft rather than sharp.
“Pacing myself, so there’s more for us at the end,” she quipped, attempting a Lark-style joke.
