Chapter 3
Chapter Three
They were three hours into their four-hour drive when Grayson decided there was definitely something off about Lark. Actually, he’d suspected it right from the get-go, when she’d slid into the passenger seat of his truck and didn’t say anything more than a cheery hello.
For three damn hours, she hadn’t made a single smart-ass comment about his driving.
Hadn’t taken a jab at him for his music selections.
She hadn’t even demanded he stop for coffee at one of the countless Starbucks they’d passed, even though he knew the woman was fueled almost exclusively by the overpriced, overly sweetened iced caramel macchiatos they sold.
Crossing into the left lane to pass a slower car, he merged in, then side-eyed her. “You okay?”
His question seemed to jolt her, as she jumped slightly. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Just thinking.”
Thinking?
That was new.
Grayson had been around Lark enough to know that she didn’t think. She reacted. Loudly. Colorfully. Usually with a biting comment that left him equal parts irritated and, while he’d never admit it, amused.
His suspicions grew, pricking under his skin, as he waited for Lark to expound. When he glanced in her direction again, making it clear he expected more, she flushed.
What the fuck was that?
Lark McCoy didn’t blush. If anything, she was the one making off-color comments and dirty jokes that made others turn red.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, unsure if he was more curious about her comment or her flushed cheeks.
“Oh, um, just about the festival.”
He snorted, assuming she was joking, so he waited for her to hit him with some punch line.
Nothing came.
No follow-up, no sarcasm.
It was weird, but also kind of nice.
He’d spent the past few days dreading this car trip, certain he’d be subjected to Lark’s special brand of nonstop chatter, to her constantly flipping through his Spotify, changing the music to something faster and louder.
He’d even anticipated needing to stop a few times because Lark wasn’t the type of person who could sit for four hours straight.
So he was shocked she still hadn’t demanded a break for the restroom or snacks.
He’d actually decided to approach this trip as if he was traveling with a toddler, pep-talking himself into being patient with Lark.
The pep talk hadn’t been necessary.
Maybe Nora losing her shit had actually worked.
Maybe Lark had finally realized that she had to be more serious about her work, that she needed to settle down a bit.
Lark had always struck him as the type of person who bulldozed her way through life, unconcerned with the consequences, but today, he was starting to wonder if this quieter version was proof that she could rein herself in when it mattered.
She’d never worked a festival before, and while she was a natural when it came to doing the tastings at the winery, maybe she wasn’t feeling as confident about the change of location.
“We should be there in about an hour. Since our hotel rooms won’t be ready until later this afternoon, I planned for us to go straight to the fairgrounds. We’ll have to check in later tonight, after we’re finished.”
She nodded. “No problem.”
“Do you have any questions?” he asked. “I know you’ve never worked a festival before.”
He fully expected her to wave him off. Despite her current demeanor, Lark was never lacking in confidence or bravado. If she didn’t know the answers, she tended to just make up her own.
So he was stunned when she nodded. “Do you usually start with whites or reds?”
Grayson blinked and glanced over, certain he’d misheard her. “Sorry, what?”
“For tastings like this,” she clarified, turning toward him. “Is there, like, a progression you prefer? Light to heavy? Sweet to dry? Should we do the same things we do at the winery, or is this a different situation, since I suspect we’re going to have to move faster?”
Okay. Now he was definitely being punked.
“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Typically whites first. Lighter-bodied wines before the heavier reds, just like we do at the winery. It keeps the palate from getting overwhelmed.”
“That makes sense.” She leaned her head back against the seat, considering. “Do we let the attendees pick and choose what they want to try, or run through them all?”
Grayson’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
Who the hell was this woman?
“If they don’t want to taste them all, we don’t make them. No sense wasting a pour of good red on someone who’s only interested in super-sweet cheerleader wine.”
Lark laughed at his joke.
“As you know, I don’t do the tastings very often,” he added. “According to Maverick, I don’t have the disposition for it. That’s why you’re here.”
“Oh, yeah, I know that,” she said, in an easy tone that sounded somewhat forced. “But you’ll be doing the tastings with me, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Mav says this festival is heavily attended and the lines tend to get long. We’ll both be working fast and furiously.”
“Do you ever build the tasting like a story?” she asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, I was reading something about wine tastings on Google, and I saw an article about how it’s good to guide people through it instead of just giving them samples.”
He frowned, turning toward her again.
Her expression was open, interested, and there wasn’t a single trace of mockery.
“Yeah. When there’s time, that’s exactly what I try to do.”
Her lips curved into a smile—soft, not smug. “I like that.”
“Sadly, I’m not sure we’ll get to do much of that this weekend.” Grayson’s gaze returned to the road, and he shook his head once, more to himself than anything else.
Maybe Nora hadn’t just helped Lark to settle down.
Maybe she’d helped her grow up and take shit seriously.
By the time they arrived at the fairgrounds, Grayson was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t.
Lark hopped out of the truck, already scanning the setup area. The festival provided the tents and tables, so all they had to do was offload the wine and merchandise, preparing for the onslaught of tipsy tasters who would be jostling for position.
Just the thought of it had him scowling. While he was glad Lark wasn’t being fucking Lark, that didn’t mean he was any happier about being here and doing this.
“What should we do first?” she asked.
He pointed to the folding tables stacked near the tent. “You set those up, and I’ll start lugging cases from the truck.”
Lark gave him a jaunty salute, the first thing she’d done today that felt right. “On it, boss.”
Grayson started unloading cases of wine, placing them on the tables Lark set up, and they fell into an easy rhythm with her unpacking the wine, lining the bottles in neat rows.
Once all the wine was off the truck, he helped her lay out the Lightning in a Bottle merchandise.
Then she stacked the tasting cups, while he fiddled with the iPad and scanner they’d use if people wanted to purchase bottles to take home.
Once he managed to get the tech going, he called her over, telling her the password in case the iPad went to sleep, running her through the process for ringing up purchases. It was similar to the winery, but a couple steps were different.
“Got it?”
“Yep. Piece of cake,” she assured him, grabbing another box of wine and carrying it to the tables. “I figure we should set up as much as we can now, in case it gets as busy as you said.”
She made a good point, so Grayson moved to help her.
They worked side by side—unpacking more bottles, setting out tasting cards. There was no tension, no friction, no annoying banter. Just a steady, almost-instinctive flow. To onlookers, it probably looked like the two of them had done this together a million times before.
It was a pleasant surprise.
At one point, their hands brushed as they reached for the same corkscrew.
Lark stilled—and so did he.
Because…what the…
For a fraction of a second, something flickered in Grayson’s gut. Something sharp and unexpected.
He pulled his hand back. “You use that one. I’ve got another in the truck. We’re going to need two anyway.”
“Thanks,” she said softly, though her eyes didn’t meet his. For some reason, that unsettled him more than any of her sarcastic comments ever had. He returned to the truck, shaking off whatever the fuck that had been.
Because Jesus Christ.
This was Lark.
Annoying, loud, brash, in-your-face Lark.
She was not his type…at all.
God, she was exactly the opposite of his type.
Fortunately, he didn’t have more than a minute or two to worry about that touch, because the first wave of festivalgoers began rolling in.
Grayson slipped into his role, fighting like the devil to channel his inner Maverick. He was confident and knowledgeable. It was the charm he struggled with.
Or at least, he had in the past.
Today, it was coming more naturally. Because of Lark.
He was used to her being a one-man show back in Gracemont, able to entertain an entire counter of patrons while serving them wine.
On the rare occasions he’d worked with her, she tended to interrupt or talk over him, always enthusiastically interjecting her own thoughts and opinions on the wine.
While it drove him crazy, it never bothered Maverick, who fed off Lark’s energy until the two of them were playfully one-upping each other—much to the delight of the customers.
None of that was present right now.
Lark didn’t interrupt him once. Instead, she listened. And when she spoke, it wasn’t to overshadow; it was to enhance.
“This one has a really bright acidity,” she told a couple sampling the Sauvignon Blanc. “Do you taste that citrus note? It’s almost like fresh grapefruit.”
The woman lit up. “Yes! That’s exactly it.”
As the tasting continued, the air filled with the scent of wine—crisp whites giving way to deeper, richer reds. Dark cherry and plum notes lingered, hints of spice and oak weaving through the warm afternoon.
Grayson poured a Cabernet, watching as Lark guided another group through the experience.