The lie.
That was why hopelessness settled back over her.
While Grayson might—MIGHT—forgive them for the swap, she wasn’t sure the same would hold true for the last couple of weeks, when Wren had continued to perpetuate the lie.
It was too late to admit she’d been the one in that hotel bed with him that night.
“I’m pretty sure Lark can handle herself,” Everett replied, grinning widely. “Unless you have some reason for feeling like you need to intervene.”
Grayson scowled at his brother but didn’t reply.
“Do you have a reason?” Everett asked, with far too much glee. “Something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?” he said, gesturing to himself and Wren.
“Lark is an employee of ours and that guy is clearly bugging her,” Grayson replied, though his tone wasn’t selling his lame answer.
Everett laughed. “That guy is Tommy, who’s as harmless as a butterfly.” His point was proven when Lark jabbed Tommy in the chest with one finger, and his shoulders slumped as he finally admitted defeat and walked away.
Lark returned to the table, looking none the worse for wear. “Apparently Tommy thinks persistence is romantic. I corrected that misconception for him.”
“Good for you.” Everett lifted his pint glass and tapped it against hers. “Because the cavalry was about to march in to rescue you.”
Lark, of course, misinterpreted his comment. “Wrennie, you know I can handle Tommy.”
Everett quickly corrected her. “Oh no.” He placed his hand on Grayson’s shoulder. “Gray is the knight in shining armor I was referring to.”
Lark’s confusion was almost palpable—which was a problem.
This was why Wren didn’t want to stick around tonight, and why she definitely didn’t want to join them at their table. Her sister didn’t have enough information about the festival to react appropriately.
And whose fault is that?
Wren had held back way too much, and now it was biting her in the ass.
Grayson studied Lark, his expression matching her sister’s confusion perfectly. “The guy’s not right for you. You said it yourself.”
“I did?” Lark stupidly replied.
Wren kicked her under the table.
“Oh,” Lark hastily corrected, not very convincingly. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.” Her sister sent her a WTF look, now aware that Wren had skipped a few pertinent details.
Grayson nodded, but it was obvious he didn’t believe she’d forgotten a thing.
Mercifully, he didn’t have time to consider that when Remi and Nora returned to the table. Remi was rubbing her foot and cussing a blue streak because Ronnie Martinez, who was drunk as a skunk, had stumbled into her on the dance floor, stepping on her foot, hard.
“Do you think you’ve got a broken toe?” Nora asked, when Remi slipped off her sandal, rubbing the injured digit.
“No. But son of a bitch, it hurts. Ronnie is a fucking menace. The asshole should be forced to wear a warning label. God knows the man never goes down alone.”
Wren didn’t go out much at all, and even she knew that. Ronnie had a reputation for being clumsy when he was sober as a stone, so she could only imagine how bad it was when he was under the influence. He’d tripped once on the way to the communion railing at church and knocked down the person in front of him, who’d staggered into the minister, who in turn spilled the entire cup of wine. Hell, he’d taken a tumble in the library just a few months earlier, knocking over the whole book display Wren had just finished putting up.
“He has two left feet,” Nora said. “We should have been giving him a wider berth.”
Remi snorted. “He was all the way on the other side of the dance floor. A wider berth would have required us dancing outside on the sidewalk.”
The pain must have started to subside, because Remi slipped her sandal back on, reaching for the pitcher to refill her glass. She reconsidered, looking over her shoulder for a waitress instead. “Nope. My injured toe requires a shot,” she said, pausing for effect before adding, “of tequila.”
When the waitress arrived, Remi ordered a round of shots for the table, even though Wren and Grayson both said they didn’t want one.
