Chapter 20
Marigold
Sitting in Eb's crazy luxury Mercedes truck while he drives us through what's turning out to be a totally unexpected winter storm would typically be a dream come true.
Like, if this were any other night? I’d be swooning.
Pointing out snow-dusted trees like I’m in a Hallmark movie.
Giggling into my scarf while pretending not to care that the brooding Shifter behind the wheel is devastatingly hot and smells like cedar, clove, and temptation.
But tonight?
My heart is aching.
I stare out the passenger window, pretending to be fascinated by snowflakes, but really, I’m watching the icy swirl of doubt clouding up my insides.
I'm so confused.
“Honey?” he says, gently, his voice so low and careful it hurts more than if he’d yelled. “Marigold, will you talk to me?”
I take a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to speak without shaking.
“What's there to say?” I begin, and the sadness lacing my voice is so obvious, even I can’t ignore it.
“You got what you wanted and left. It’s a boring story, Eb. Guy gets matched with girl on a dating app. Guy refuses the match. Then, for some reason, he decides to toy with the girl anyway—because she must be desperate enough to be on the app, so hey, why not, right? She must be easy.”
He flinches, but I keep going, bitter now.
Wounded.
“And I guess I was, wasn’t I? I let you in. Flirted. Hell, I dressed up for you. Had sex with you. And then I woke up to an empty bed and nothing but my own damn feelings staring me in the face.”
The silence in the car is deafening.
He's gripping the steering wheel so hard, I can see the whites of his knuckles even in the low dashboard glow.
His jaw is locked, that muscle ticking like a damn time bomb.
And the fact that he isn’t speaking?
Yeah. It makes everything worse.
I wrap my arms around myself and press my back into the seat.
Defensive.
Cold.
Guarded.
“Anyway,” I murmur, keeping my eyes forward now, “there’s nothing else to say.
You showed up at the gala because of the contract, right?
Magically binding when you accept a date on Date to Mate?
So, mission accomplished. Congrats on fulfilling your obligation.
You get to keep your reputation intact with no repercussions. Good for you.”
Still, nothing.
He doesn’t say a damn word.
But he flips the turn signal.
And the next thing I know, he’s turning down a long, winding driveway flanked by snow-covered pine trees strung with tens of thousands of clear twinkle lights.
I blink at the sheer magic of it.
Literal magic.
The trees glow like a path from a fairytale, light reflecting off the fresh powder blanketing the world around us.
The mansion at the end of the drive looks like a snow-covered gingerbread palace, complete with a twelve-foot nutcracker animatronic that moves like something out of Disney World, and a ballerina twirling on a rotating platform next to him, her arms poised overhead as music plays from unseen speakers.
It is breathtaking.
It is absurd.
It’s—wait—why is he stopping here?
This can’t be. Can it?
“Eb? Where are we?” I ask, eyes wide as he pulls to a stop in front of the towering front steps.
He doesn’t look at me when he answers.
“This is my place,” he says gruffly, throwing the car into park. “And now, if you’re finished with whatever that was, I think it’s time you heard my side of it.”
I twist in my seat, stunned.
His green eyes are glittering like gemstones—sharp and pained and furious in a way that knocks the wind out of me.
His chest is visibly rising and falling, his body vibrating with a low, steady growl that seems to shake the air inside the truck.
Before I can process what’s happening, he’s out of the car.
The door slams shut with a finality that makes me jump.
Seconds later, he’s at my door.
He yanks it open, unbuckles my seat belt like I’m a toddler in a booster seat, and then—without even asking—scoops me up in his arms.
He’s carrying all hundred and ninety-nine pounds of me. Princess style.
“Eb!” I squeal, my boots kicking in the air as I try to twist out of his grip. “I can walk!”
“No,” he snaps.
One word.
Firm.
Non-negotiable.
Badger-stubborn.
Then he’s stomping through the snow, up the twinkling path and the wide, ivy-lined steps of his ridiculous mansion like he’s on a mission.
He doesn’t even slip.
Show-off.
My cheeks are burning.
My heart is hammering.
My brain is still scrambling to catch up with this whirlwind.
But the craziest part?
I don’t really want him to put me down.
Which is probably why I stop fighting so hard.
My hands curl into his tux jacket, and I peek up at his too handsome face.
He looks carved from granite and firelight, his brow furrowed, lips in a hard line, but his eyes—those damn brilliant green eyes—look like he’s barely holding it together.
“I didn’t leave because I used you,” he growls low, voice vibrating against my side.
“I left because I had to. But I knew the second I saw you sleeping there in my arms that I’d never be the same again.”
Oh.
Oh, hell.
I think I just forgot how to breathe.
My body goes stock-still in his arms.
Not because I’m scared. But because I think something inside me cracked wide open.
I feel it—the slow, splintering ache of hope trying to bloom in the shadow of heartbreak.
And I wonder, am I strong enough to survive this?