Wren found herself telling him things she hadn’t thought about in ages. Stories about growing up with Lark, the chaos that came with being the twin sister of such a whirlwind of a person. Then she spoke about the comfort found in having someone who always understood her.
Grayson shared little bits and pieces about his childhood as well, remarking that while he and Maverick weren’t twins, they did feel like kindred spirits in an opposites-attract way. As such, she got the sense that he genuinely understood when she talked about the special relationship between her and Lark. He shared the same one with his brother.
She was sadly lacking on girlfriends, so she didn’t usually spend so much time talking about herself. With Grayson, it was easy. Because he was truly interested. He asked countless questions, wanting more details, laughing at the antics she and Lark had gotten into, relating his own funny stories.
Eventually, the conversation circled back to the wine festival. “I still can’t believe we pulled it off,” she sighed. “I think I did a shitty job of imitating Lark.”
Grayson laughed. “You know, I feel like a complete idiot for not figuring it out. If not at the festival, I sure as shit should have put it together after seeing you in the library.”
“Oh no,” Wren said, putting her wine down. “It was never my intention to make you feel stupid.”
Grayson leaned toward her, his expression softer. “Hey. Don’t worry about it. I’m joking. So what other old-timey sayings does your dad use? Because my granddad used to have some beauts. My favorite line he liked to use was, ‘He’s all hat, no cattle.’”
She laughed. “What the hell does that mean?”
Grayson explained, and they were off to the races, going tit for tat, listing every grandpa-style country saying they could remember.
Two hours passed in the blink of an eye as they polished off the bottle of wine, talking like long-lost friends.
Wren shared some details about the book club, the two of them cracking up as she related some of Manny’s questions regarding the racy sex scenes in the book they’d read.
“That guy is hilarious,” Grayson said. “He and Edith have become honorary Storms, the two of them rarely missing a Sunday dinner at Mom and Dad’s. You should come tomorrow night.”
Wren paused. “Oh, I couldn’t?—”
Grayson brushed his fingers across her cheek. “Wren.”
“But if it’s just fam?—”
“Consider it?” he asked. “Please.” He leaned closer.
Her breath caught when his gaze dropped to her mouth.
He gave her time to pull away. When she didn’t, he lowered his head, his lips touching hers.
Wren melted.
The kiss started soft and sweet before he deepened it, his large, calloused hands cupping her cheeks, turning her head slightly this way and that.
Then one hand left her face, traveling lower. His arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her against him. Wren followed his directions without an ounce of hesitation.
Heat spread throughout her body, and every place he touched seemed to come alive.
Their lips parted, and she wasn’t sure if it was her tongue or his that moved in first, stroking, tasting, sharing the wine once more…in a different, much more intimate way.
The kiss lingered. When they parted, it was only for a second to catch their breath before they came back for another. And then another.
Each kiss was better and hotter than the last.
A quiet sound escaped her throat when Grayson’s hand slid up and down her back. His mouth moved against hers hungrily. The room disappeared, the sounds from the street below faded, everything vanished from existence except for him. His lips. His arms. His sweet breath.
So when he gently guided her backward against the couch cushions and something ugly inside woke up and broke free, it caught her off guard.
Then his weight came down over her.
Panic surged as her pulse thundered.
She broke the kiss, twisting her head as a half cry/half whimper escaped. Her hands, which had been fisted in his shirt, flattened against his chest, pushing hard.
