"The vineyard's always open for tours. During business hours. When I'm clothed."
"How disappointing."
She laughed, the sound bright and practiced, and moved closer still. Close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral and cloying, nothing like Marigold's delicate sweetness.
"Truly, though," Rachel continued, tilting her head in a way she probably thought was charming, "I wanted to discuss some ideas I had for the festival. Sponsorship opportunities. Premium seating arrangements. I have connections with several vendors who would be perfect for the wine pairing?—"
"I appreciate the interest." He took a step backwards, putting the hoe between them like a barrier. "But you should really bring those suggestions to the committee meeting next week. That way both co-chairs can weigh in."
Something flickered behind Rachel's carefully composed expression. A crack in the polish.
"Both co-chairs," she repeated. "You mean the florist. Marigold."
"That's generally what co-chair means, yes."
"I suppose." Her smile turned brittle at the edges. "Though I have to admit, I was surprised when Ellie nominated her. A newcomer running such an important event?" She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her dress. "Some of us have been involved with the Chamber for years without getting that kind of recognition."
Ah. So that was the angle.
"Mari's more than qualified," he said firmly, the nickname slipping out before he could catch it.
Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Mari?"
"Marigold. She's got a good eye for design, she's organized, and she actually listens to other people's ideas." He shrugged, deliberately casual. "What more could you want in a committee partner?"
"Partner." The word dripped with implication. "Is that what you're calling it?"
His patience was wearing thin. He'd dealt with her type before—the sharp words behind the honeyed smile, the territorial games, the practiced seduction. In his younger days, he might havebeen flattered. Might have played along, let the dance carry him wherever it led. Now, he just felt tired.
"I'm calling it what it is," he said. "A professional arrangement. Now, if you don't mind, I've got three more rows to weed before noon."
He turned back to his work, hoping she'd take the hint.
She didn't.
"You know," she said, moving around to his other side, refusing to be dismissed, "I've always thought this vineyard had such potential. With the right connections, the right support, you could really expand. Make a name for yourself beyond this little town." She laid a hand on his arm, her nails painted to match her lips. "I know people, Thallos. Important people. Investors, distributors, marketing specialists…"
He looked down at her hand.
"That's quite an offer."
"I'm a generous woman."
"And I'm a simple vintner who likes his vineyard exactly the size it is." He stepped out from under her touch, gentle but unmistakable. "Thanks for stopping by, Rachel. I'll see you at the meeting."
The dismissal hung in the air between them, and something ugly flashed across her face before she smoothed it away.
"Of course." Her smile was back in place, though it no longer reached her eyes. "The meeting. I'm looking forward to it."
She turned to go, heels clicking decisively once she reached the gravel, and he allowed himself a small breath of relief. Then he heard the car.
A familiar dusty Civic pulled in next to the tasting room, and Marigold climbed out of it, a folder clutched to her chest like a shield. His heart felt like a fist unclenching and a rope pulling taut all at once.
She hadn't seen him yet. Her attention was on the vineyard, on the rows of vines stretching toward the hills, and even from this distance he could see the way she was taking it in, methodically cataloging every detail for later analysis.
*That's her armor,* he realized. *Observation. Distance. Never letting herself just feel something without examining it first.*
Then she turned, and her eyes found him, and for one suspended moment neither of them moved.
