"You're an excellent dancer."
"I'm an adequate dancer who occasionally manages not to step on your hooves." She set down her wine glass and leaned toward him, her eyes bright with mischief. "I was thinking we might practice tonight. In the grove."
Heat pooled low in his belly. The grove. Where the magic ran thick and the boundaries between desire and action became dangerously thin.
"Practicing," he repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Among other things." Her voice had dropped, taking on that slightly breathless quality that made him want to forget lunch entirely and carry her back to his cabin. "Unless you have other plans?"
"None that matter." He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "Tonight, then. Sunset?"
"Sunset." She shivered slightly at the touch of his lips, her pupils dilating. "I should probably go. I need to get things organized for the week. I'm trying to be a responsible business owner." She stood, brushing grass from her skirt. "And if I stay here much longer, I'm going to do something entirely irresponsible."
"Promises, promises."
She laughed and bent down to kiss him—a brief press of lips that turned into something longer and deeper when he caught the back of her neck and held her there. By the time they broke apart, they were both breathing harder.
"Sunset," she said again, and there was a promise in the word. "Don't be late."
"I'm never late." He released her reluctantly, watching her gather the last of her things. "I'm always exactly where I need to be, precisely when I need to be there."
"Modest, too."
"It's one of my many virtues."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she walked away, picking her way through the vineyard toward the path that led back to town. He watched until she disappeared from view, the flash of her dark hair visible between the vines until the very last moment.
*Tonight.*
The anticipation was almost painful. He could still taste her on his lips, still feel the phantom warmth of her body pressed against his. The grove would be dangerous—the magic there amplified everything, made it harder to maintain control. Butshe had asked, and there was very little in this world he would refuse her.
With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet and began gathering the remnants of their picnic. The blanket went over his arm, the basket of food balanced against his hip. He could have summoned one of the brownie servants who helped maintain the property, but he preferred to do certain things himself. It kept him grounded.
The walk back to his cabin took him through the heart of the vineyard, past rows of heavy-laden vines that were finally approaching their peak. Another few weeks and he'd be knee-deep in harvest, overseeing the pressing and fermentation that would eventually become next year's vintage. It was honest work, satisfying work—the kind that kept his hands busy and his mind from wandering into darker territories.
Not like before.
He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the practical matters at hand. The festival was in two weeks. There were still arrangements to finalize, vendors to confirm, a hundred small details that required attention. Working with Marigold on the planning had been unexpectedly enjoyable—she was organized in ways that complemented his chaos, meticulous where he was impulsive. They made a good team.
In more ways than one.
He was halfway up the porch steps to his cabin when he noticed the envelope tucked into the doorframe. Heavy white paper. No return address. His name written across the front in a familiar, elegant script.
The good mood that had sustained him through lunch with Marigold evaporated like morning dew.
He knew that handwriting. He would know it anywhere, having stared at it through countless letters over the years—some pleading, some threatening, all unwelcome.
*Not now. Gods, please not now.*
But prayer had never done him much good, and he knew better than to think it would start now. With a sense of grim inevitability, he set down the picnic basket and reached for the envelope.
The paper was expensive. Of course it was. Silas had always appreciated the finer things, had always made sure everyone around him knew exactly how refined his tastes were.
Inside, the message was brief, not much longer than the text he'd already received.
Brother—
I'll be arriving Tuesday afternoon. We have matters to discuss regarding the family holdings. Please ensure you're available.
