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 almost disapproving, and I couldn't help but hear whispers of his name—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 . . . and furrowed my brow.
Once we were seated and had each been served a glass of wine, Grayson started to relax slightly. I looked around, eyes darting 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 something told me he wasn't. I looked at him, sitting stiffly and studying his menu just a tad too intensely, and the vow I'd made to stay detached crumbled. "I find," I said softly, moving my hand slowly across the table to lie on top of his, "that sometimes the best thing you can do is smile." When my hand made contact with his, he jolted very slightly, his eyes meeting mine. The look there was so intensely vulnerable, my heart stuttered in my chest for a few beats. That was the man I'd first seen outside the bank. "Try it," I encouraged gently, tilting my head and giving him a big, bright smile.
He returned a small, tightlipped grimace.
"Is that your smile? Truly?" I pretended to shudder. "Looks more like a demented hyena." He looked shocked for a second, but then he leaned his head back and 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 seemed to find somehow.
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 polite society since you . . . ah, returned."
She turned to me, holding 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 face drained of color. "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?