Every muscle in her body locked. She managed a light shrug. “Different good or different serial killer?”
“Definitely not serial killer. You’re quieter than usual.”
Panic fluttered.
“Is that a complaint?”
“God, no,” he said, in a tone that proved her sister hadn’t exaggerated about how much she annoyed Grayson.
Wren searched for an explanation, just in case Grayson’s suspicions continued to grow.
“You’ll have to excuse me for not tap dancing through the wine festival after being awake since dawn. Some of us aren’t fueled entirely by caffeine and stubbornness. Plus,” Wren added, proud when the perfect Lark-ish justification came to her, “if you must know, I might have been a little hungover this morning. Or, well, maybe a lot,” she said dramatically, the way she’d heard Lark say those same words on more occasions than she cared to count.
She was proud of her efforts when Grayson rolled his eyes, buying her excuse. “Of course, you were,” he grumbled.
Crisis averted.
“Night, little bird,” he said, his eyes sliding closed.
“Night,” she whispered back.
Silence settled between them.
Outside, muffled sounds drifted through the hotel walls—distant laughter, a car door slamming, soft footsteps in the hallway. The air conditioner rattled every few minutes. Beside her, Grayson shifted, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
Wren hugged the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep should have come instantly. She was tired enough that her body ached with it. But…she remained annoyingly alert, every nerve ending aware of the man lying less than two feet away.
The man who’d had his arms wrapped around her earlier.
The man who’d protected her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The man who called her little bird.
He was also the man she was actively lying to. Guilt twisted in her stomach, and she was suddenly regretting scarfing down that burger.
This entire situation had spiraled so far beyond what she’d anticipated. When Lark had begged her to cover for her, the plan sounded simple enough. Pretend to be Lark, pour wine, smile.
What she hadn’t accounted for was Grayson.
The two of them had both lived in Gracemont their entire lives, but their paths rarely ever crossed. It wasn’t like they ran in the same social circles. Probably because she didn’t run in any social circle. She was six years younger than him, so they were never in school together, and right after graduation, Wren went off to college, pretty much only returning for the Christmas holidays.
There were lots of annual events in Gracemont, including the Harvest Festival, the Christmas party, and the Valentine’s Day dance, but Wren’s attendance at those was more miss than hit.
So until today, Grayson had basically been a stranger whose face, name, and family she knew, but precious little else.
She hadn’t expected him to be kind and patient, and quietly funny in a dry, understated way that kept sneaking up on her. She definitely hadn’t expected to feel safe around him.
That part surprised her most of all. Because safety wasn’t something Wren experienced easily or often, and certainly not with a man she didn’t know well.
Yet somehow, over the course of one long, exhausting day, Grayson had slipped past the defenses she’d spent years building.
It made no sense.
She scooted even closer to the edge of the bed, rolling on her side and facing away from him. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Go to sleep.
