“You’re obviously passionate about it,” he said. “And it sounds like a very worthy endeavor. You helped one person, who in turn helps so many now.” He looked over at me with a look I thought might be sincere respect. My heart warmed despite my vow to keep it cold and removed. “So you stayed to see the hospital completed and you came home?” he asked.
I let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Well, almost. I would have stayed until the ribbon-cutting ceremony, but there was an, um, an incident.”
Grayson raised a brow. “An incident?”
“I, uh, challenged a tribal leader to a foot race.”
“Of course you did.”
I noted his sarcasm, but as I glanced over at him, I saw amusement in his eyes that looked almost affectionate. “Apparently, tribal leaders don’t appreciate being bested publicly. In any case, I thought it best for Khotso and his project that I distance myself, literally. So I flew home a bit earlier than I originally intended.” And before I’d had a chance to come up with a better plan than marrying you, Grayson Dragon Hawthorn.
We pulled into a parking spot in downtown Napa and walked to an Italian restaurant I’d seen before but never dined in. It was in a stately old bank building with large stone columns flanking the front. “I thought it was apropos,” Grayson said, opening the front door for me, “that our first date be inside a bank. After all, a bank is where it all started.”
I raised my eyebrows. “True. Although, this isn’t a first date. It’s merely our friendly wedding dinner. Practically a business function, actually.”
Before he could answer, a hostess greeted us. “Grayson Hawthorn,” he said. “I have a reservation for six thirty.”
The girl gave him an admiring look, smoothed her hair back in an obvious preening gesture, and turned to lead us to our table.
I couldn’t help but notice the glances our way as we walked through the restaurant to a table near the back of the main dining room. Some of the looks were merely female admiration for Grayson, but many of the glances seemed decidedly disapproving. I couldn’t help but hear whispers of his name, and it didn’t sound like the talk was of a positive nature. I frowned, noticing the rigid way Grayson was holding himself as we followed the hostess.
I recalled overhearing the two girls in the store: you couldn’t take him home to Mama now…
Once we were seated and had each been served a glass of wine, Grayson started to relax slightly. I looked around, people glancing away from us rather than making eye contact. We were obviously being discussed. I remembered what a small town Napa was. All these people were gossiping about Grayson, judging him. Perhaps for his crime, perhaps for the reasons he was back…perhaps for the fact that his family business was in ruin, perhaps for the “fact” that you couldn’t take him home to Mama now. My heart went out to him. I knew just what it felt like to be judged…and to be found severely lacking.
He appeared almost immune to the whispers around him, but the stiff set of his shoulders told me he wasn’t. I looked at him, sitting ramrod straight and studying his menu just a tad too intensely, and the vow I’d made to stay detached crumbled. “Sometimes,” I said softly, moving my hand slowly across the table, “the very best thing you can do is smile.” When my hand made contact with his, he jolted slightly, his eyes meeting mine. The look there was so intensely vulnerable, my heart stuttered for a few beats. There he is, the man I first saw outside the bank. The prince. “Try it,” I encouraged gently, tilting my head and giving him a big, bright smile, the one I brought forth when I wanted to convince others that I had not a care in the world even if, inside, I was dying.
He returned a small, tightlipped grimace.
“I realize you’re more of a cold indifference kind of guy, but surely you can do better than that. You look like a demented hyena.” I pretended to shudder.
He looked shocked for a second, but then he laughed, and the resulting smile was big and bright and very, very beautiful.
I grinned back. And suddenly, the tension waned. I withdrew my hand, yet my skin still felt warm from where we’d touched. We eased into mostly casual conversation after that, talking about mundane things through our meal. I didn’t want to break the spell of easygoing friendship we’d unexpectedly seemed to find.
As our dessert was served, an older woman came up to our table, a young woman lingering behind her nervously. “I thought that was you, Gray Hawthorn,” the older woman said. “I wasn’t sure, though. You’ve neither shown hide nor hair of yourself in public since you…ah, returned.”
Her gaze flickered over me and she held out her hand. “I’m Diane Fernsby. You must be one of Gray’s girls,” she said, contempt practically dripping from her surgically plumped lips.
“Actually, Diane,” Grayson cut in, “this is my wife, Kira Hawthorn.” My eyes flew to his and I swallowed, shock rendering me silent. I hadn’t been prepared to hear those words.
Diane’s eyes widened. “Your wife? Why, Gray, your mother’s oldest friend and I didn’t get an invite to the wedding?”
“Stepmother,” Grayson corrected. “And we had an intimate ceremony.” He took my hand and smiled into my eyes. “We couldn’t wait.”
“I…see,” she said, her eyes moving over me, landing on my hand that was on the table, widening when she saw the ring on my left hand. “Well, this is certainly a—”
“Mom, we should go. Hi, Gray,” the younger woman standing just behind her mother said.
“Hi, Suzie,” Gray said, more warmth in his tone. Suzie blushed, looking away. Ex-girlfriend?
“Yes, you’re right, dear. We should go.” Diane Fernsby turned back to us. “Well, my congratulations,” she said, sounding anything but congratulatory. “After what happened with Vanessa…I was worried you wouldn’t be able to move on.” She shook her head. “Breaking your engagement and then, while you were in prison, marrying—”
“We weren’t engaged,” Grayson said, his voice steady and cold. My heart gave a kick. Vanessa? Who is Vanessa?
Diane waved her hand in the air. “Oh, well, we all knew you would be soon enough. Your mother told me you’d even bought a ring. And then—”
“Mom,” Suzie said harshly from behind her. She smiled apologetically at both of us, pulling on her mom’s hand. “Have a nice evening,” she said. “And congratulations. Gray, good to see you.”
“Ah, well, good evening,” Diane Fernsby said, allowing her daughter to lead her away. When they had only moved a few steps from our table, Diane leaned toward her daughter and whispered none too quietly, “You dodged a bullet with that one, dear. I hear the vineyard is barely scraping by…and now an ex-con… After all the heartache he put his parents—” Her words faded as she moved farther away, but the sound of her tsk-tsking carried through the restaurant.
I waited until they had disappeared from sight, giving Grayson a worried glance before speaking. “Every small town has a graceless gossip,” I said. “I see Napa’s goes by the name Diane Fernsby.”