"Thank you." She said it quietly, almost grudgingly, like the words cost her something. "For not… pushing."
"I told you. I'm patient."
The ghost of a smile crossed her face. "That must be new."
"What?"
"Patience." She gestured vaguely at him. "You don't seem like the patient type."
"I'm not." He let himself smile back. "You're just worth waiting for."
The flush returned to her cheeks. She turned away quickly, focusing on the paperwork again. He watched her for a moment, thinking about how much she already looked like she belonged in his cabin.
*Dangerous thoughts,* he warned himself. *She's not mine yet.*
But she could be. The kiss had proven that much. Underneath all her walls and her fears and her determination to keep him at arm's length, there was something real. Something that responded to him. Something that wanted this just as badly as he did.
He just had to be patient.
He turned his attention to the applications as well, and tried not to think about the taste of honey still lingering on his lips.
The paperwork took longer than it should have.
Partly because there was a lot of it—vendor applications, permit forms, budget spreadsheets, equipment rental quotes. Partly because she had opinions about everything and wasn't shy about sharing them, which he found charming even when it meant redoing his carefully organized logistics.
And partly because he kept getting distracted.
Every time she leaned forward to point at something on a document, her hair would swing across her shoulder. Every time she tapped her pen against the table while thinking, his eyes would drift to her mouth. Every time she looked up at him, caught him watching, and quickly looked away?—
*Focus,* he told himself. *I'm supposed to be demonstrating patience. Patience does not involve staring at her like a lovesick adolescent.*
"What about music?" She was shuffling through the entertainment applications again. "The folk band is good, but I think we need something more. Something that fits the atmosphere."
"I could play."
The words were out before he could stop them.
She gave him a surprised look. "You play?"
"I play the fiddle." He kept his voice casual, like it didn't matter, like the thought of performing again didn't make his chest tight with equal parts longing and fear. "I used to, anyway. Before I focused on the vineyard."
"You never mentioned that."
"It never came up."
She was studying him now with that too-perceptive gaze. "Would you want to? Play at the festival, I mean?"
*No.* The answer was immediate and visceral. The last time he'd performed in public—the last time he'd let himself be vulnerable that way?—
He pushed the memory down.
"Maybe for the opening," he said. "After we have the opening dance."
"Wait." Her pen stopped mid-tap. "What do you mean, *we* have the opening dance?"
"The opening ceremony." He watched her expression shift from confusion to dawning horror. "The co-chairs lead the first dance. You didn't know?"
"I was nominated without my consent!" Her voice rose an octave. "No one told me there would be dancing!"
