Chapter 7
Marigold hesitated again when they reached a path that wound along the side of the vineyard towards a cluster of trees.
"I'm not sure…"
"This is strictly professional," Thallos repeated.
"Right."
"I have a very comfortable couch."
"I'm sure you do."
"And a ceiling fan."
She stood very still, acutely aware of the heat pressing down on her shoulders, the sweat already gathering at the small of her back.
*He's offering you a ceiling fan. A comfortable couch.*
*He's offering you an excuse to stay.*
"I should go," she said, but the words came out weak and unconvincing even to herself.
He tilted his head, studying her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Patient. Expectant. Like he had all the time in the world.
"You could," he agreed. "Drive back into town, sweltering in your car, only to realize we still need to discuss the applications. Or…" He let the word hang there, baited and gleaming. "You could come up to the cabin, enjoy some air conditioning, and we could actually get some work done."
*Air conditioning.*
It was such a mundane detail. Such a practical, unsexy, completely reasonable detail. And yet somehow, coming from his mouth, it felt like a dare.
"Fine," she heard herself say. "But just to get the paperwork sorted. Then I'm leaving."
His smile was slow and satisfied.
"I wouldn't dream of keeping you."
The path to the cabin wound along the older section of the vineyard, where the vines were thicker and more established, their gnarled trunks speaking to decades of careful cultivation.
She could hear the faint hum of bees moving between wild flowers at the row edges and the distant sound of water trickling somewhere nearby.
It was beautiful. Quietly, unexpectedly beautiful.
"How long have you had this place?" she asked, grateful for something neutral to talk about.
"The vineyard's been here for three generations.
The cabin I rebuilt myself, about five years ago.
" He walked beside her, keeping his pace measured to match hers.
"There was an old structure that had mostly fallen down.
Only the stone foundation and a few walls were left.
I kept what I could and added the rest."
"You built it yourself? Literally by yourself?"
"With help. Some of the locals know their way around construction better than I do. But I did most of the finish work." He glanced at her sideways. "Is that surprising?"
"I don't know." She considered it. "I guess I expected a winemaker to spend more time with grapes than with power tools."
"Wine requires patience. Building requires patience. I find I'm fairly good at both."
Patience. With wine. With building. With her?
The path curved, and suddenly the trees opened up to reveal the cabin. She stopped walking.
It wasn't what she'd expected. She'd pictured something rustic, rough-hewn logs or a basic A-frame structure practical for a bachelor who spent most of his time in the vineyard.
Instead, she found herself staring at a careful marriage of old and new.
Original stone walls blended seamlessly into expanses of glass and weathered wood, a broad porch wrapped around two sides, and there were plants everywhere.
Window boxes overflowing with trailing greenery. Climbing vines framing the entrance. A small garden off to one side where she could see tomato plants heavy with fruit. The whole structure seemed to grow from the landscape rather than sit upon it.
"You made this," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I had help."
"But you… it's…" She shook her head, searching for the right words. "It's beautiful."
Something shifted in his expression. Softened.
"Thank you."
He led her up the porch steps and through the front door, and the blessed relief of cool air hit her flushed skin.
True to his word, a ceiling fan rotated lazily overhead, stirring the air in the open-plan living space.
The interior matched the exterior—a careful mix of new and old, natural materials, comfortable furniture, and plenty of books on built-in shelves.
Everything looked lived-in but cared for.
*This is his home,* she thought. *A real home. Not a way station between disasters.*
"Make yourself comfortable." He was already moving toward a door on the far side of the room. "I'll be quick. There's water in the kitchen, or wine if you want something stronger."
"Water's fine."
"Festival plans on the table there." He pointed to a sturdy wooden dining table already scattered with papers and maps. "I've been doing some preliminary sketches of my own. Figured we could compare notes."
And then he was gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him, and she was left alone in his home.
She stood very still for a moment, listening to the sound of water starting to run.
*He's showering. Right now. Right there.* She squeezed her eyes shut. *Don't think about it. Don't—*
But her traitorous brain had already conjured the image of water sluicing over broad shoulders, down that chest she'd seen in the vineyard, along the lines of muscle that had been so distractingly on display…
*Stop it.*
She crossed to the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator with more force than necessary and grabbing a bottle of water. The cold helped. She pressed the bottle against her forehead, then her neck, letting it ground her in the present moment.
*You're here for the festival. The paperwork. Nothing else.*
She returned to the table and spread out the vendor applications she'd brought.
Focusing on logistics was infinitely safer than standing in the middle of his living room having inappropriate thoughts about his shower habits.
The stack was thick with applications, everything from local artisans to traveling food vendors to a band that specialized in "monster music," whatever that meant.
She began sorting them into categories, trying to focus on logistics and budget constraints instead of the sound of water running not twenty feet away.
*Fifteen food vendors. Eight craft vendors. Three entertainment options. We'll need to figure out the layout for—*
The familiar rhythm of sorting and categorizing settled her nerves. This was what she was good at. This was what she could control. She was so focused on the work that she almost missed the sound of a door opening.
Almost.
"Sorry about that." His voice came from behind her, and she made the critical mistake of turning around.
He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, because of course the bathroom connected to the bedroom, rubbing a towel over his head with one hand, entirely casual about the fact that he was still shirtless.
His hair was damp, darker than usual, curling slightly at the ends where it brushed his jaw.
Water droplets still clung to the planes of his chest, catching the light that filtered through the windows.
Her mouth went dry.
"Couldn't find a clean shirt," he said. "Give me a minute."
She watched, paralyzed, as he disappeared back into the bedroom.
*Just breathe. Just breathe. This is fine. People shower. People don't always have clean shirts immediately available. This is normal.*
It didn't feel normal. It felt like torture.
He emerged again a moment later, pulling a soft grey t-shirt over his head. The motion made the muscles of his abdomen flex in ways that made her brain short-circuit.
"Better?" he asked.
"What?" she squeaked. "I mean. Yes. Fine. You're… fine."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Thanks."
He crossed to the table, and she realized with a jolt of panic that he was coming to stand beside her. Close beside her. Close enough that she could smell soap and something earthier underneath—the vineyard, maybe, or just him.
"What have we got?" He braced one hand on the table, leaning forward to look at her organized piles, and the motion brought his arm within inches of her shoulder.
*Professional,* she reminded herself. *This is professional.*
"I sorted them by category." She was proud of how steady her voice came out. "Food vendors are the largest group—eighteen applications so far. We'll need to narrow that down to maybe ten, to keep from oversaturating."
"Makes sense." He reached past her to pick up one of the applications, and his arm brushed against hers.
Just the lightest contact. Barely anything at all. She felt it like a brand.
"This one's interesting." He held up a paper. "Local cheese maker. Says he's been experimenting with wine-infused varieties."
"I saw that." She took a breath and tried to focus. "I thought it would pair well with your tasting station. Cross-promotion."
"Smart."
He set the paper down and picked up another, and this time his hand grazed her hip as he moved.
*An accident,* she told herself. *The space is cramped. These things happen.*
But when she glanced up at his face, she caught the edge of a smile he wasn't quite hiding.
*Oh. Oh no.*
"The entertainment applications are thinner than I'd like," she said, too quickly, desperate to fill the charged silence. "We've got a folk band and a string quartet, but nothing for the kids. I was thinking maybe—"
He straightened up, increasing the distance between them, but somehow making her even more aware of him. The air between them felt thick and heavy.
*This is the moment,* some part of her brain whispered. *This is where you make an excuse and leave.*
She didn't move.
"Marigold." His voice was low and careful. "I need you to tell me something."
"What?"
He took a half-step closer, and she felt the warmth of him even through the afternoon heat. "Are you scared of me? Did I do something that—"
"No," she said honestly. "No, it wasn't you. It isn't you."
"Then what?"
She looked up at him—at those amber eyes that had been watching her since the moment they met, at the line of his jaw and the curve of his mouth and the way he was holding himself so carefully still—and felt something crack in her chest.
"I don't trust this," she whispered. "I don't trust myself with this. Every time I've let someone…" She shook her head. "It always ends badly. I always end up cleaning up the wreckage."
"I'm not going to hurt you, little flower."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I don't want to." He reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I can promise that the thought of hurting you makes me want to set myself on fire."
A laugh bubbled up in her throat, surprised and slightly hysterical. "That's dramatic."
"I'm a dramatic person. Haven't you noticed?"
She had. God help her, she had.
His hand was still near her face. Hovering. Waiting.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly. "Tell me you want me to back off and I will. Right now. We can finish the paperwork and never speak of this again."
She should say it. She should take the out he was offering and run, just like she'd run from the tasting room, just like she'd been running from anything that threatened her carefully constructed walls.
"And if I don't?" The words came out barely above a whisper. "If I don't tell you to stop?"
Something blazed in his eyes.
"Then I'm going to kiss you again," he said. "And this time, I'm not going to apologize for it."
The world narrowed to the space between his mouth and hers.
She had spent her whole life being careful. Being cautious. Being the responsible one who thought things through and weighed consequences and never, ever, let herself get swept up in anything she couldn't control.
For once—just this once—she wanted to stop thinking.
"Don't apologize," she said, and closed the distance herself.
When his mouth met hers it was like coming home.
It wasn't like the brief, teasing brush of their first kiss, the one that had caught her off guard and sent her running. This was deliberate. Intentional. His hands came up to frame her face, tilting her head back to deepen the angle, and she heard herself make a sound she'd never made before.
*Oh.*
*Oh, this is—*
Her hands found his chest, pressing against solid muscle through the soft cotton of his tee. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm, faster than she expected, and the realization that he was as affected as she was broke something loose inside her.
She stopped thinking about consequences.
She stopped thinking at all.
The kiss escalated, turned hungry, turned into something that demanded more. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she went willingly. Eagerly. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, then slid upward to tangle in his still-damp hair.
He made a sound against her mouth—half groan, half growl—that she felt in her toes.
"Marigold." Her name came out ragged. "Gods, you—"
She kissed him again before he could finish.
The world had shrunk to just the taste of him, the feel of him, and the solid warmth of his body against hers. Everything else—her fears, her doubts, the careful walls she'd spent years building—faded into background noise.
His mouth traced down her jaw, found the sensitive spot below her ear, and she gasped.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her skin. "If you need me to stop—"
"Don't you dare."
She felt him smile. And then his mouth found hers again, and she lost track of everything but the fire building between them. This was dangerous. This was reckless. This was everything she'd promised herself she would never let happen.
And right now, with his hands in her hair and his heart beating against hers, she couldn't bring herself to care.