Her mouth went dry.
"Couldn't find a clean shirt," he said. "Give me a minute."
She watched, paralyzed, as he disappeared back into the bedroom.
*Just breathe. Just breathe. This is fine. People shower. People don't always have clean shirts immediately available. This is normal.*
It didn't feel normal. It felt like torture.
He emerged again a moment later, pulling a soft grey t-shirt over his head. The motion made the muscles of his abdomen flex in ways that made her brain short-circuit.
"Better?" he asked.
"What?" she squeaked. "I mean. Yes. Fine. You're… fine."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Thanks."
He crossed to the table, and she realized with a jolt of panic that he was coming to stand beside her. Close beside her. Close enough that she could smell soap and something earthier underneath—the vineyard, maybe, or just him.
"What have we got?" He braced one hand on the table, leaning forward to look at her organized piles, and the motion brought his arm within inches of her shoulder.
*Professional,*she reminded herself.*This is professional.*
"I sorted them by category." She was proud of how steady her voice came out. "Food vendors are the largest group—eighteen applications so far. We'll need to narrow that down to maybe ten, to keep from oversaturating."
"Makes sense." He reached past her to pick up one of the applications, and his arm brushed against hers.
Just the lightest contact. Barely anything at all. She felt it like a brand.
"This one's interesting." He held up a paper. "Local cheese maker. Says he's been experimenting with wine-infused varieties."
"I saw that." She took a breath and tried to focus. "I thought it would pair well with your tasting station. Cross-promotion."
"Smart."
He set the paper down and picked up another, and this time his hand grazed her hip as he moved.
*An accident,* she told herself. *The space is cramped. These things happen.*
But when she glanced up at his face, she caught the edge of a smile he wasn't quite hiding.
*Oh. Oh no.*
"The entertainment applications are thinner than I'd like," she said, too quickly, desperate to fill the charged silence. "We've got a folk band and a string quartet, but nothing for the kids. I was thinking maybe?—"
He straightened up, increasing the distance between them, but somehow making her even more aware of him. The air between them felt thick and heavy.
*This is the moment,* some part of her brain whispered. *This is where you make an excuse and leave.*
She didn't move.
"Marigold." His voice was low and careful. "I need you to tell me something."
"What?"
He took a half-step closer, and she felt the warmth of him even through the afternoon heat. "Are you scared of me? Did I do something that?—"
"No," she said honestly. "No, it wasn't you. It isn't you."
