"You look like a woman who had an excellent night." He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "There's nothing shameful about that."
"Tell that to Main Street."
"I will, if you want. Loudly and in great detail."
She laughed, leaning back against him. "Please don't."
"Your loss. I give excellent testimonials."
She turned in his arms, rising on her toes to kiss him. "Walk me home?"
"Try to stop me."
The morning was bright and clear, the air carrying the green scent of the vineyard and the distant sweetness of wildflowers. They walked hand in hand through the rows of grapevines, their steps unhurried, their silence comfortable.
He felt lighter than he had in years. The knot of anxiety that had lived in his chest since the restaurant—hell, since long before that—had finally loosened. She was here. She'd stayed. She'd chosen him.
The thought still sent a thrill through him every time it crossed his mind.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, glancing up at him.
"You."
"Be more specific."
"I'm thinking about how I can't believe you're real. How I can't believe we're together. How I'm half convinced I'm going to wake up and discover this was all an extremely vivid dream."
"That's very sweet."
"I'm also thinking about what you look like without clothes."
She choked on a laugh. "Less sweet."
"I contain multitudes."
They reached the edge of the vineyard and turned onto the road that led towards town. The shops and houses of Harmony Glen spread out before them, picturesque and familiar. The Sanderson house gleamed white in the morning sun. The bakery's chimney was already puffing fragrant smoke. A few early risers walked dogs or jogged along the sidewalks.
It was, he reflected, an almost offensively perfect morning.
Of course, that's when Rachel appeared.
She emerged from the coffee shop just as they approached, her immaculate appearance suggesting she'd been awake for hours despite it being barely past nine. Her blonde hair was swept up in an elaborate style. Her makeup was flawless. Her dress was perfectly tailored to her figure.
Her expression, when she spotted them, went through a fascinating series of transformations—surprise, calculation, and finally a sharp, brittle smile.
"Well, well." Rachel's voice carried easily across the quiet street. "Look who's doing the walk of shame."
He felt Marigold stiffen beside him. His own jaw tightened, but he kept his voice pleasant. "Good morning, Rachel. Lovely day."
"Is it?" She tilted her head, her gaze raking over Marigold's wrinkled clothes with obvious satisfaction. "I heard about that scene at dinner last night. Poor Daisy. She must be absolutely mortified, having her daughter cause such a spectacle."
"Rachel," he said warningly.
"I'm just saying." Rachel's smile sharpened. "Some of us were raised to handle our personal business in private. But I suppose standards vary."
He opened his mouth to respond, to defend Marigold and shut Rachel down, but before he could speak, Marigold stepped forward.
"Actually, Rachel, I have a question."
