“You look terrible.”
Wren glanced up from the circulation desk, struggling not to glare at Mrs. Baxter, one of her most regular library patrons. “Good morning to you too.”
The older woman snorted. “Late night?”
Wren sighed. “You could say that.” Her answer had been the wrong one, because Mrs. Baxter was a busybody from way back, so she’d just stupidly stoked the woman’s curiosity.
“Do tell,” Mrs. Baxter purred.
“Lark came over to watch reality TV,” she replied, shutting the woman down fast.
It worked. Mrs. Baxter sighed and moved on to the craft books, no doubt hunting down her next cross-stitch pattern.
Wren spent an hour shelving returns and helping patrons while trying not to think about a pair of broad shoulders, dark eyes, a sexy beard, and a kiss that had made her toes curl.
Naturally, the universe gave her no credit for the attempt, deciding to punish her anyway. Because the library doors opened shortly before lunch and Grayson walked in.
Wren froze as every bit of air vanished from her lungs.
He looked unfairly good in faded jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Sunlight streamed through the windows behind him, outlining his tall frame when he paused just inside the entrance and looked around.
Then his gaze landed on her.
He studied her face intently, and her stomach dropped straight to her shoes.
Oh God.
He knows.
Her heart raced frantically as she lowered her eyes to the stack of books in front of her. She pretended to be suddenly fascinated by the barcodes.
She needed to act normal, but that was hard. Normal people breathed and she’d lost that ability. She’d also broken into a cold sweat, and her insides were shaking like a sapling in a hurricane.
So yeah…acting normal had gone out the window.
“Wren?”
His voice saying her real name—at last—rolled through her like smooth whiskey.
She looked up carefully, trying to blank her expression as she pushed her hair over her shoulder. Unlike Lark, who was never without a ponytail or messy bun, Wren preferred to wear her hair down. Keeping it pinned up all weekend had made her scalp sore, and she wondered how her sister maintained the style day after day.
Grayson smiled politely, but his eyes were sharp, too focused, and she was sort of sorry she hadn’t put on some of the mascara she hadn’t returned to her sister. She didn’t need a mirror to know just how rough she looked right now, tired and drawn and…
Plain.
Wren had liked the way she’d looked this weekend in Lark’s makeup. Her eyes appeared bigger and brighter and livelier. Makeup was something she’d never bothered with because—she sighed, recalling something Lark had said—she really was guilty of trying to blend in with the wallpaper most of the time.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Grayson Storm.”
Her cheeks heated instantly, even as a wave of relief washed through her.
He was introducing himself as a stranger. Because to him, they were.
Before this weekend, she and Grayson had exchanged hellos maybe six times in her whole life. Those greetings had been random town events when she was younger, simply because Wren had spent most of her adult life away at college in Radford, only coming home for the holidays. As such, she’d known Grayson’s name, face, what he did for a living, and precious little else.
While she’d taken the library position in Gracemont at the end of last summer, she hadn’t really broken back into the social scene—skipping out on the Harvest Festival, the town holiday party, and the Valentine’s Dance. Lark had worked overtime to get her to attend all of them, but Wren always managed to come up with an excuse. Her sister had accepted them, but Wren knew she was close to running out on “byes” as far as Lark was concerned. Her twin had sworn, come hell or high water, Wren was attending this year’s Harvest Festival dance.
Standing in front of him, pretending she didn’t know what his kiss tasted like, felt nearly impossible. But she had to. For Lark…who’d gone to work late yesterday, for God’s sake.
