Chapter 6
The sun beat down on Thallos's bare shoulders like a personal challenge.
He drove the hoe into the soil between the vine rows, breaking up a patch of stubborn weeds that had the audacity to think they could grow in his vineyard.
Sweat traced lines down his back, and his hooves left deep impressions in the turned earth as he moved down the row, finding rhythm in the repetitive motion.
*Dig. Pull. Toss. Move.*
*Dig. Pull. Toss. Move.*
Physical labor helped. It always had. When his thoughts ran too fast or too dark, when sleep refused to come, when his hands itched for the familiar weight of a bow across strings—he came out here. He let his body work until his mind had no choice but to quiet.
Today, his mind was being particularly uncooperative.
Green eyes widening in surprise. The soft catch of her breath. The way she'd tasted, sweet and warm, before she'd pulled away—
He swung the hoe harder than necessary. A clump of dirt exploded against the nearest vine post.
"Easy," he muttered to himself. "Damage the grapes and you'll really have something to sulk about."
*Three days.*
Three days since the wine tasting. Three days since he'd walked her home through streets painted gold by the setting sun, three days since he'd made her roses bloom and watched her face transform with wonder, three days since she'd flinched away from his touch like he'd burned her.
Three days of nothing.
No calls. No visits. Not even a text about festival planning, though they had a committee meeting scheduled for next week and plenty to discuss. She'd even had someone else pick up her car.
He'd thought about reaching out. He'd picked up his phone a dozen times, typed out messages and deleted them, composed casual invitations that all felt desperately uncasual when he read them back.
*Hey, want to grab coffee and talk about tent rentals?*
Delete.
*Thought you might want to see the vineyard in daylight.*
Delete.
*I haven't stopped thinking about you since you walked away.*
Delete, delete, delete.
In the end, he'd done nothing. She'd made her position clear when she'd flinched away from him. A gentleman would respect that. He was trying very hard to be a gentleman.
It was killing him.
*Dig. Pull. Toss. Move.*
The morning sun climbed higher, shifting from warm to genuinely hot.
His muscles burned pleasantly as he worked his way down the row, losing himself in the simple satisfaction of cultivation.
These vines were his legacy, or would be, someday.
Every bottle that came from this soil would trace back here, to this land he'd poured himself into.
Most days, that thought brought him peace. Today, it just reminded him how empty the tasting room had felt since she'd left. He was so lost in thought that he almost missed the click of heels on the gravel path.
Almost.
"Well, well." The voice was honeyed and deliberate, pitched to carry. "I heard rumors about vineyard workers, but I assumed they were exaggerations."
He carefully schooled his face into a neutral expression as he straightened and turned around.
Rachel stood at the edge of the row, her designer heels sinking slightly into the soft earth.
She wore a cream-colored sundress that probably came from the small boutique she owned, the kind of garment designed to look effortless while requiring enormous effort.
Her blonde hair was swept into an artfully messy updo, and her lips were painted a shade of red that seemed aggressive in the morning light.
She was looking at his bare chest like she'd ordered it from a menu.
"Rachel." He kept his voice pleasant. Distant. "This is unexpected."
"Is it?" She slowly picked her way closer, like a lioness stalking her prey. "I thought I'd stop by and see how preparations for the festival are coming along. As a concerned member of the Chamber of Commerce."
"At ten in the morning. On a Wednesday."
"I'm very dedicated."
He leaned on the hoe handle, letting his silence speak for itself, but her smile didn't waver. If anything, it sharpened.
"Don't be like that, Thallos. I'm simply trying to be neighborly." Her gaze dropped to his chest again, lingering on the sheen of sweat there. "Though I have to say, if I'd known the view was this good, I'd have stopped by sooner."
"The vineyard's always open for tours. During business hours. When I'm clothed."
"How disappointing."
She laughed, the sound bright and practiced, and moved closer still. Close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral and cloying, nothing like Marigold's delicate sweetness.
"Truly, though," Rachel continued, tilting her head in a way she probably thought was charming, "I wanted to discuss some ideas I had for the festival. Sponsorship opportunities. Premium seating arrangements. I have connections with several vendors who would be perfect for the wine pairing—"
"I appreciate the interest." He took a step backwards, putting the hoe between them like a barrier. "But you should really bring those suggestions to the committee meeting next week. That way both co-chairs can weigh in."
Something flickered behind Rachel's carefully composed expression. A crack in the polish.
"Both co-chairs," she repeated. "You mean the florist. Marigold."
"That's generally what co-chair means, yes."
"I suppose." Her smile turned brittle at the edges.
"Though I have to admit, I was surprised when Ellie nominated her.
A newcomer running such an important event?
" She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her dress.
"Some of us have been involved with the Chamber for years without getting that kind of recognition. "
Ah. So that was the angle.
"Mari's more than qualified," he said firmly, the nickname slipping out before he could catch it.
Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Mari?"
"Marigold. She's got a good eye for design, she's organized, and she actually listens to other people's ideas." He shrugged, deliberately casual. "What more could you want in a committee partner?"
"Partner." The word dripped with implication. "Is that what you're calling it?"
His patience was wearing thin. He'd dealt with her type before—the sharp words behind the honeyed smile, the territorial games, the practiced seduction. In his younger days, he might have been flattered. Might have played along, let the dance carry him wherever it led. Now, he just felt tired.
"I'm calling it what it is," he said. "A professional arrangement. Now, if you don't mind, I've got three more rows to weed before noon."
He turned back to his work, hoping she'd take the hint.
She didn't.
"You know," she said, moving around to his other side, refusing to be dismissed, "I've always thought this vineyard had such potential.
With the right connections, the right support, you could really expand.
Make a name for yourself beyond this little town.
" She laid a hand on his arm, her nails painted to match her lips.
"I know people, Thallos. Important people.
Investors, distributors, marketing specialists… "
He looked down at her hand.
"That's quite an offer."
"I'm a generous woman."
"And I'm a simple vintner who likes his vineyard exactly the size it is." He stepped out from under her touch, gentle but unmistakable. "Thanks for stopping by, Rachel. I'll see you at the meeting."
The dismissal hung in the air between them, and something ugly flashed across her face before she smoothed it away.
"Of course." Her smile was back in place, though it no longer reached her eyes. "The meeting. I'm looking forward to it."
She turned to go, heels clicking decisively once she reached the gravel, and he allowed himself a small breath of relief. Then he heard the car.
A familiar dusty Civic pulled in next to the tasting room, and Marigold climbed out of it, a folder clutched to her chest like a shield. His heart felt like a fist unclenching and a rope pulling taut all at once.
She hadn't seen him yet. Her attention was on the vineyard, on the rows of vines stretching toward the hills, and even from this distance he could see the way she was taking it in, methodically cataloging every detail for later analysis.
*That's her armor,* he realized. *Observation. Distance. Never letting herself just feel something without examining it first.*
Then she turned, and her eyes found him, and for one suspended moment neither of them moved.
He knew what he must look like. Dirty. Sweaty. Shirtless like some romance novel cliché come to life. He should probably feel embarrassed about that. He didn't. What he felt was something far more dangerous.
Hope.
"Marigold!" He raised a hand in greeting, forcing his voice into something casual as he strode towards her. "Wasn't expecting you."
She started towards him, and he watched her gaze travel down over her bare chest. Her cheeks went faintly pink.
*Interesting.*
"I tried calling," she said as she got closer. "You didn't answer."
"Phone's in the shop. I tend to leave it there when I'm working." He gestured at himself, at the obvious lack of pockets. "Not a lot of places to put it."
"I can… see that."
The pink in her cheeks deepened, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
"I brought the vendor applications," she continued, holding up her folder like evidence. "For the festival. The deadline's next week and we need to review them before the committee meeting. I thought…" She trailed off, seeming to realize for the first time that they weren't alone. "Oh. Hello."
Rachel had paused halfway to her car. Now she pivoted smoothly, her expression transforming into something that might have passed for warmth if you didn't look too closely.
"Marigold! What a coincidence. I was just discussing festival business with Thallos myself."
"Were you?"
"Mmm. I was offering my assistance. As a senior member of the Chamber, I feel it's my duty to support our newer… participants."
The pause before participants was infinitesimal, but he caught it. From the slight tightening around Marigold's eyes, so did she.
"That's kind of you," Marigold said evenly. "We appreciate any help we can get."
"Of course you do." Rachel's gaze swept over Marigold's outfit—a simple cotton dress and sandals, practical for a summer morning—with the kind of dismissive assessment that some women chose to weaponize against each other. "I love your dress, by the way. It's so… comfortable looking."
Something hot flared in his chest.
"She looks beautiful," he said, before his brain could catch up with his mouth.
Both women turned to stare at him. *In for a penny,* he thought, and doubled down.
"The dress, I mean. It suits you, Marigold. You look very…" He searched for the right word, aware that he was navigating a conversational minefield. "Elegant."
The pink in Marigold's cheeks flamed into full red. Rachel's smile went fixed and sharp.
"How sweet," Rachel said, her voice like honey poured over broken glass. "Thallos has always had such unique taste."
"And such clear preferences." He met her eyes squarely. "Speaking of which, Rachel, I believe you were leaving?"
The silence that followed was pointed enough to draw blood. Rachel held his gaze for a long moment, something dangerous flickering behind her polished exterior. Then she laughed—a bright, brittle sound—and shook her head.
"Of course. I have appointments anyway. Busy, busy." She swept past Marigold without another glance, her heels grinding against the gravel with unnecessary force. "See you at the meeting, darling. Both of you."
The endearment was aimed at him, but her eyes cut to Marigold as she said it.
They watched her car disappear down the drive in a cloud of dust.
"Well," Marigold said finally. "That was…"
"Yeah."
"She seems…"
"Yeah."
A beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
It was just a quiet huff of amusement, quickly suppressed, but it transformed her face. It made her look younger, somehow, and lighter.
*Gods help me,* he thought. *I'm completely gone for this woman.*
"Should I ask what that was about?" She gestured vaguely in the direction Rachel had gone.
"Nothing interesting. She stops by occasionally to…" He considered his words. "Offer assistance."
"Assistance."
"Of various kinds."
"Ah." Her expression shifted into something harder to read. "And do you… accept her assistance?"
The question hung between them, weighted with implications.
"No," he said simply. "I don't."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or relief—before she smoothed it away. "None of my business, either way."
"Isn't it?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he watched her go still.
*Careful,* he told himself. *Don't push. Don't spook her.*
But it was too late to take it back. The question sat between them like a living thing, waiting to see which of them would acknowledge it first. She looked away. She looked at the vines, the sky, and finally, the folder still clutched against her chest.
"The vendor applications," she said finally. "We should review them."
A deflection. He recognized the tactic, but he let her have it.
"Of course. Come with me."
She followed him obediently enough until she realized he was bypassing the tasting room.
"Where are we going?"
"To my cabin. I need to shower. It's hot out here."
"It is." Her voice was slightly strangled. "Very… hot."
He bit back another smile.
"But…"
"Strictly professional," he said quickly. "No wine."
"Probably wise."
"Probably." He started walking again and to his relief, she fell in step beside him. "Though I have to say, you were much more relaxed with the wine."
"I was practically unconscious with the wine."
"You were charming."
"I was an embarrassment."
"You called my fourth-year vintage audacious. I've never been more flattered."
She gave a startled laugh that made something warm unfurling in his chest. *That's what I wanted to hear.*
He could feel her gaze on him—quick, furtive glances that she probably thought he didn't notice—and he let her look.
Let her take whatever time she needs. Because he’d already decided that this careful, guarded, quietly stubborn woman who looked at him like he was both a puzzle and a threat was worth waiting for. However long it took.