Grayson narrowed his eyes briefly, and she figured she must have hit the mark on her imitation—one of the few times today—because he looked a little annoyed.
“We’re not drinking what’s left.”
Wren channeled her sister as she said, “Party pooper.”
Grayson snorted, and they went back to serving wine, returning to the easy camaraderie they’d established over the course of the day. They fell into their own familiar rhythm as the crowd ebbed and flowed—pour, smile, chat, repeat. Wren mirrored Lark as best she could, trying to be brighter, bolder, and a little more carefree than she felt. Somehow, alongside Grayson, it didn’t feel like such a stretch, though she was also pretty sure she wasn’t hitting a tenth of her sister’s outgoingness.
Grayson’s arm brushed against hers as he bent forward to grab the tasting cards the wind was trying to blow away. He placed one of the rocks they’d collected from the parking lot earlier on the stack as a paperweight.
Warmth curled low in her stomach, confusing and unwelcome.
Lark doesn’t care for Grayson, she reminded herself for the millionth time. There had to be a reason, but if there was, Wren couldn’t see it. Most likely it was just a personality thing. Lark could be a lot. Like, A LOT a lot, and Grayson struck her as the type of guy who preferred quiet and calm…something she could relate to.
“Hey there, gorgeous.”
The slurred voice cut through Wren’s concentration. She turned, forcing a polite smile into place. The man leaning against the edge of the table was flushed, his grin swarthy, his gaze unfocused.
Clearly, this wasn’t his first tasting of the day. Given the way he swayed as if on the deck of a boat, she’d say he’d been here since the gates opened at noon. Considering it was nearly eight, that was saying something.
Surprisingly, they hadn’t come up against anyone yet who’d been truly trashed. Sure, they’d had to deal with more than a handful of tipsy people, including a large group of women who were using the festival for a bachelorette celebration, but they were just giggly and super loud.
Not leering and creepy…like this guy.
She glanced in Grayson’s direction, wondering if there was some sort of rule about serving someone who was too intoxicated. Unfortunately, he had his back to her as he boxed up a large order placed by the group he’d been talking to. As the night wore on, and the first day of the festival wound down, a lot more people were returning to buy their favorite wines.
“Do you want a tasting?” she asked, prepared to give the man no more than a drop of each wine. She wasn’t entirely sure he’d even notice.
“Nah,” he said, reaching out. He moved faster than she expected, given his level of intoxication. His fingers wrapped around her wrist before she could step away. “I wanna dance with you.”
The world narrowed instantly as her breath caught and her body went rigid. Strange men didn’t touch her. Because she never let them get close enough.
“I—please let go,” she managed to say, though it came out thin and weak. Why couldn’t she channel Lark now? Her sister wouldn’t let some drunk asshole manhandle her.
“C’mon. That guy can handle things. Music’s hopping.” He tugged with enough force that it hurt.
Wren froze as every instinct she had—every carefully built wall—slammed into place at once, locking her in. Sound dulled and movement slowed. Her heart pounded so loudly, it drowned out everything else.
Suddenly, she was a nine-year-old girl, jolted awake in her dark bedroom by the monster who didn’t hide under the bed, but in plain sight.
She felt herself being propelled around the counter. She couldn’t pull away, couldn’t think, couldn’t?—
“Let go of her.”
Grayson’s voice wasn’t loud. Because it didn’t need to be. Somehow, it still sliced through the white noise deafening her.
The man blinked, turning away from Wren but not releasing her. “Relax, dude. We’re just going to?—”
“I said,” Grayson repeated, stepping closer, his tone still controlled but now edged with something much more menacing, “let go.”
There was a flicker of tension before the drunk guy huffed out a laugh and released her wrist. “Didn’t know she came with a bodyguard.”
“Now you do,” Grayson said, arms crossed in such a way that his chest looked muscular, thick, huge. “We’re not serving you. You’re clearly drunk. I suggest you find water and a ride home.”
The guy muttered something under his breath but staggered off, obviously intimidated by Grayson. Guess he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t recognize danger when it stared him in the face.
Wren didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
“Lark?” Grayson’s voice shifted, all the steel dissolving into something gentler, kinder. He turned toward her, his gaze searching. “You okay?”
