"You say entrapment, I say romantic opportunity."
She took a sip of the lemonade—tart and sweet and perfect—and tried not to smile. Failed miserably. She'd been failing at not smiling around Thallos all week.
It was becoming a problem.
The festival planning had consumed most of their time. There were vendor contracts to finalize, decoration orders to confirm, a small crisis involving the portable stage and whether it could actually support the weight of a minotaur folk band. She had discovered, somewhat to her surprise, that she was actually good at this. Her color-coded notebooks had proven invaluable. Her ability to keep track of seventeen competing details at once had saved them from at least three potential disasters.
And Thallos… Thallos had been wonderful.
Not in the flashy, over-the-top way she might have expected. No grand gestures or elaborate displays. Just a constant, steady presence at her side. He listened when she talked. He asked questions that showed he'd been paying attention. He remembered the small things—that she liked her coffee with exactly two sugars, that she got headaches if she skipped lunch, and that she preferred to work through problems out loud rather than in silence.
He saw her.
It was terrifying. And intoxicating. And she'd stopped trying to fight it somewhere around Wednesday, when he'd shown up at the flower shop with a sandwich and insisted she eat it while he reorganized her supply closet without being asked.
"The stage is confirmed," she said now, pulling out her notebook. "Delivery is set for Thursday morning. We should probably?—"
"Marigold."
"—coordinate with the sound equipment people, because the last thing we need is?—"
"Marigold."
She looked up.
He was watching her with that particular expression—part amusement, part exasperation, part something warmer—that made her stomach flip. He reached out and gently closed her notebook.
"It's Saturday," he said.
"I'm aware."
"We've been working all week."
"The festival is in two weeks. We have?—"
"We have time." He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell him—wine and earth and that wild mush that was all him. "Take a break. Enjoy the afternoon. The grapes will forgive you."
"I wasn't worried about the grapes."
"Then stop worrying about everything else."
She wanted to argue. The part of her that had spent years cleaning up her mother's messes, anticipating problems before they could materialize, and maintaining control because control was the only thing that kept the chaos at bay, bristled at the suggestion.
But the rest of her… the rest of her was tired. And the sun was warm. And he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Fine," she said. "One hour. Then we review the vendor list."
"Two hours."
"Ninety minutes."
"Done." He took her hand—just that, just her hand in his, and even that small contact sent warmth spiraling through her. "Come on. I want to show you something."
He led her through the vineyard, past rows of vines heavy with ripening grapes, past the wine shop with its rustic charm and the tasting room they'd spent yesterday arguing about how to decorate. The property stretched further than she'd realized, rolling hills giving way to a small stream bordered by wildflowers.
And beyond that?—
"Oh," she breathed.
