Chapter 7 #2
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t as awkward as she might have expected. Instead, it felt charged and dangerous. Because they’d crossed a line last night. One she wasn’t sure how to uncross.
No, one she wasn’t sure she wanted to uncross.
Even though she had to.
The problem was the way he was looking at her. No one had ever looked at her like that. Like she was something he wanted. Like she was precious and tempting.
Her chest tightened when she remembered why this couldn’t happen. She was lying to him. He thought she was Lark.
Every smile and conversation had been built on a lie. And Lark’s future at Stormy Weather Farm depended on her keeping up the act. Guilt twisted through her hard enough to make her nauseous.
She took a sip of the coffee and winced at the bitterness. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”
“Told you so.”
“It tastes burned,” she said, putting the cup down on the nightstand.
“I think they filtered it through an old gym sock…ten years ago.”
She giggled. Actually giggled.
Who the hell was she?
Grayson watched her over the rim of his cup, his expression softening in a way that told her she was in big, BIG trouble.
“I was going to grab a shower before we head back to the fairgrounds,” he said. “You want to go first?”
She shook her head, lifting the coffee cup again. “No, you go ahead. I’ll stay here and continue questioning my life choices.”
He chuckled, then grabbed clean clothes from his duffel before walking to the bathroom and shutting the door.
Wren thought she should feel more relaxed with him out of the room proper, but when she heard the shower start, all she could think about was how he was naked and wet right on the other side of that wall.
Water sliding down his broad shoulders. Strong hands raking through wet hair.
Soap gliding across that gorgeous chest.
Awesome.
Just what she needed.
Her entire body reacted to the thought, as a simmering heat burned low in her stomach. All her girlie bits woke up at the same damn time.
What the hell was this man doing to her?
Twenty minutes later, Wren was still in the same damn place—she really needed to get out of bed—when Grayson emerged from the bathroom.
Twenty minutes spent lying to herself, pretending she wasn’t wildly attracted to him.
Those lies became even harder when he stepped back into the bedroom.
His damp hair was pushed back from his face, a couple tiny drops of water still clinging to his neatly trimmed beard.
He wore dark jeans and a fitted black Henley with the tiny Lightning in a Bottle logo emblazoned on the left-hand side.
The shirt stretched across his muscular chest in a way that should have been illegal before eight in the morning.
You’re Lark. You’re Lark.
She began repeating those two words like a mantra, letting them sink in deep. She needed the reminder to cool her panic and her desire.
Distance, she decided, was the best answer.
She would simply keep her distance from him as much as possible.
So with that in mind, she excused herself to take her own shower, stalling in the bathroom until it was time for them to head back to the festival.
Which was where it became a hell of a lot harder to keep her distance.
The place was buzzing with energy by midmorning. Music played while festivalgoers packed the pathways between booths, laughing and weaving their way through the crowds with glasses of wine in hand.
Normally, dealing with this many people would exhaust her, but somehow, with Grayson, it felt easy.
She’d noticed the same thing yesterday. He had a casual, quiet way of drawing people in naturally.
He didn’t need to talk loudly or be overly animated or tell a bunch of funny jokes or stories, all the techniques Lark employed.
The ones she was supposed to be mimicking.
Ha ha.
She figured she was managing to hit about thirty percent on the Lark personality scale, yet that seemed to be enough for Grayson.
Lark said she didn’t know him that well, so perhaps that was it. Or maybe Grayson thought she was toning herself down for his benefit on this trip. If he did think that, then it was clear he didn’t know Lark at all, since she only had one level and it was balls-to-the-wall frenetic energy.
Watching Grayson work was fascinating. He smiled more than she expected, given Lark’s grumpy complaints.
Women blatantly flirted with him while pretending to ask about wine pairings, and he handled every interaction with a quiet charm she found endearing.
Even if she was tempted to tell the more forward women to take a big step back.
Jesus. Was she jealous?
If so, that was a first for her.
She was going to have to call Sophie as soon as she got home to see if she could schedule an emergency session. Though she wasn’t sure her therapist would consider her kissing a man a 9-1-1 sort of situation. Although, given Wren’s history, she might.
Wren turned at the sound of someone clearing their throat, aware she’d been staring at Grayson for a full five minutes, admiring just how incredibly sexy he was. She forgot she was supposed to be selling wine too.
“Sorry,” she murmured to the three women giving her knowing grins.
The oldest of the trio winked at her. “Honey, that’s one hell of a view you’ve got. We don’t blame you for soaking it in.”
The other women burst into laughter. Wren blushed, praying Grayson hadn’t overheard the woman.
For the next half hour, they were too busy for Wren to ogle her partner. More’s the pity, because despite the rush, she was still managing to obsess over every move Grayson made.
It didn’t help that he wasn’t observing the same “personal space” they’d maintained yesterday.
Today, he was standing closer. His arm kept brushing against hers, and twice, when he needed to walk behind her to grab another bottle of wine, he placed both hands on her waist, dragging his front along her back, even though the space in the booth wasn’t that limited.
Every tiny contact lit her up.
Wren’s breathing stopped completely when he did the same thing again now, his hands lightly gripping her waist. However, this time, his hold remained as he leaned closer, murmuring in her ear. “You’re good at this.”
Her lust-addled brain didn’t engage before she found herself asking, “At pretending?”
“At selling,” he responded, frowning slightly. “What are you pretending at?”
Heat rushed to her face because, wow, she was really fucking bad at this.
“Uh…nothing. Misspoke.”
She could tell he didn’t buy that answer, but there was no way she could clear her brain enough to come up with something more plausible. Especially not when his hand briefly settled on the small of her back, resting there for a moment before he stepped back to his side of the tent.
That contact hadn’t lasted more than five seconds, but it still had her spiraling with a desire so overwhelming, she felt dizzy. She nearly dropped the corkscrew she was holding.
Jesus, Wren. Pull yourself together.
It was just…she’d never felt like this before. Never understood why women in books lost their minds over simple touches or lingering looks.
Now she did.
Because Grayson touched her like he knew exactly how she’d sound if he got her alone again. That thought hit so hard, she had to grip the edge of the table.
“You okay, little bird?” Grayson asked, his tone more concern, less flirting. Not that the change helped. If anything, it made her even hotter, and for one reckless second, she wondered what it would feel like to stop fighting her desires.
Her imagination went wild as she considered kissing him again. What would it be like to let him touch her everywhere?
Her body clenched with a need so strong and intense, it almost hurt.
And then…an older memory came roaring back, refusing to be shut away any longer.
Darkness.
The bed shifting.
The rancid smell of bourbon.
That heavy weight pressing her into the mattress and a hand over her mouth.
Fear sliced through her.
Wren jerked away from Grayson so fast, his expression shifted from concern to confusion. “Lark?”
Hearing her sister’s name somehow helped, grounding her.
She wasn’t herself. She was someone else.
God, she really needed to be someone else right now.
Any warmth between her and Grayson evaporated beneath the weight of her panic. She forced a bright smile on her face. It was a Lark smile, easy, carefree, teasing.
“You’re hovering, Grayson. Customers are going to think you’re obsessed with me.”
A couple of people standing near the booth heard her, and they laughed.
Grayson didn’t. His eyes narrowed slightly, like he sensed the wall she’d just slammed into place between them. Unlike those stupid pillows, this wall was made from bricks and steel, forged over fourteen years. It was sturdy, strong, impenetrable.
Or at least she thought so.
Until he said, “Maybe I am.”
The quiet sincerity in his voice almost cracked her composure.
Almost.
Sadly, she couldn’t afford almost. Because she was standing on the edge of something she couldn’t handle.
That was when she realized the most dangerous thing about Grayson wasn’t the way he touched her.
It was the way he made her want to stop hiding.