Chapter 16
The next day brought rain. Marigold spent the morning in the flower shop, arranging bouquets for three different customers while the sky outside turned gray and weeping. The work was meditative—choosing stems, trimming leaves, balancing colors and textures until each arrangement felt alive.
She was just finishing a piece for Mrs. Patterson's anniversary—roses and baby's breath, classic and romantic—when the bell above the door chimed.
"We're almost—" She looked up. "Oh."
Thallos stood in the doorway, soaking wet and grinning like he'd won the lottery.
"Tell me you didn't walk here," she said.
"I didn't walk here."
"Liar."
"I jogged part of the way." He shook himself, water droplets flying. "Also, you have no idea how hard it is to run with hooves on wet cobblestones."
"Why didn't you just—I don't know—wait for it to stop?"
He crossed to the counter, leaving a trail of wet hoofprints on her freshly mopped floor. She should have been annoyed. She wasn't.
"Because I wanted to see you," he said simply.
"We have plans tonight."
"I know. But tonight is hours away, and I didn't want to wait hours."
He said it like it was obvious. Like wanting to see her was reason enough to risk pneumonia.
*This is what I want,* she thought. *Just this.*
"You're dripping on my counter."
"Is that a complaint?"
"It's an observation."
He leaned across the counter, close enough that she could see the water beaded on his eyelashes, could smell rain and wine and that indefinable Thallos scent that had become synonymous with comfort.
"I have a theory," he said.
"About what?"
"About you."
"That sounds ominous."
"I think you use observations as shields. When something feels too big, too overwhelming, you retreat into facts. 'The sky is blue.' 'The counter is wet.' Safe statements that don't require you to feel anything."
She should have denied it. Instead, she said, "And what would you like me to say instead?"
"The truth."
"Which is?"
"That seeing me dripping on your counter makes you want to drag me upstairs and towel me dry. Very thoroughly. In ways that might involve removing my clothes."
Heat rushed to her face. "That's—I don't—you're—"
He laughed, delighted. "There it is. The legendary Marigold Bloom articulation."
"I articulate just fine."
"You're blushing."
"I'm irritated."
"You're adorable."
"I'm going to throw this bouquet at your head."
"Mrs. Patterson would probably object."
She set down the bouquet before she actually did throw it. Her hands were trembling slightly, not with anger but with the effort of containing everything she was feeling.
"The truth," she said slowly, "is that I've been thinking about you constantly. All week. Every time I'm not with you, I'm thinking about when I will be with you again. It's distracting and annoying and completely unlike me."
"And?"
"And yes. Fine. Seeing you show up soaking wet because you 'didn't want to wait' makes me want to…" She gestured helplessly at the stairs that led to her apartment. "What you said. All of that."
His expression shifted. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it was something more serious. More intent.
"Then why don't you?" he asked quietly.
"Because it's the middle of the day. Because I have customers. Because—" She broke off, frustrated with her own excuses. "Because I've never done this before."
"Done what? Had a relationship?"
"Had something that felt like it might actually matter."
The words landed between them, heavy and true. He reached across the counter and took her hand.
"It matters," he said. "You matter. And we can take all the time you need. I told you—I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." She squeezed his hand. "I believe you. That's what's so strange. I actually believe you."
He lifted her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Tonight. We'll have dinner. We'll practice the dance. And whatever happens after that, whatever you want to happen or not happen, is entirely up to you."
"And if what I want is…" She couldn't quite finish the sentence.
But he understood. Of course he understood.
"Then I'll be the luckiest satyr in Harmony Glen."
She changed her outfit three times before settling on a dress—soft green cotton, the color of new leaves, with a neckline that was perhaps slightly lower than her usual choices. She told herself it was because of the heat. She knew she was lying.
He had promised dinner at his cabin. Just the two of them. No dance lessons, no festival planning, no interruptions.
She knew what that meant. What she wanted it to mean.
The walk to the vineyard felt different than all the other times she'd made this journey. Longer somehow, the anticipation stretching each step into an eternity. The sun was setting, painting the sky in rose and gold stripes, and the air smelled of ripening grapes and summer flowers.
When she reached the cabin, he was waiting on the porch.
He'd dressed up too in a white linen shirt, open at the collar, and an engraved leather belt. His hair was damp, like he'd just bathed. His eyes found hers across the distance and held.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
*Eloquent, Bloom. Really masterful.*
He came down the porch steps, moving with that particular grace that had made her nervous the first time she'd seen him. Now it made her mouth water.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"You look…" She gestured vaguely. "Also beautiful."
His smile was warm, fond, understanding. "Nervous?"
"Terrified."
"Good. Me too."
"You are?"
"I've been wanting this for weeks." He took her hand, led her up the steps and into the cabin. "Wanting you for weeks. And now that it's actually happening, I'm terrified I'll mess it up somehow."
The cabin was warm with candlelight, dozens of candles scattered across every available surface. The table was set for two, something delicious-smelling keeping warm in covered dishes. Music played softly from somewhere she couldn't identify.
"You did all this?" she asked.
"I wanted it to be special."
"It is. It's…" She turned to face him, suddenly overcome. "You're incredible. You know that, right?"
"I'm starting to believe it." He cupped her face in his hands. "Because of you. Because of the way you look at me like I'm more than just a charming satyr with a nice vineyard."
"You are more."
"I know. Now. You helped me see it."
He kissed her, soft and sweet, and she melted into him the way she'd been wanting to melt all week.
"Dinner first," he murmured against her mouth. "I didn't spend three hours cooking just to have it go cold."
"You cooked?"
"Why does everyone act so surprised by that?"
She laughed, let him lead her to the table, let him serve her roast chicken with roasted vegetables and herbs from his garden. The food was delicious. The wine was better. But she barely tasted any of it, too aware of him across the table, too consumed by the knowledge of what was coming.
"Tell me something," she said, echoing his question from the meadow.
"What do you want to know?"
"Why me?" She set down her fork. "Of all the people in this town—and I've seen how people look at you—why me?"
He considered the question seriously, the way he considered everything she said.
"Because you didn't look at me like everyone else does," he said finally. "Everyone else sees the satyr. The charm. The entertainment. You saw through all of that on day one and decided you wanted nothing to do with it."
"That's not exactly flattering."
"It was exactly what I needed." He reached across the table, took her hand.
"I've spent my life being what people expected me to be.
And then there was you, seeing right through the performance and demanding something real.
It terrified me. And it made me want to be real for you.
To show you the parts of myself I'd hidden from everyone else. "
"The music," she said softly.
His fingers tightened on hers. "Yes. The music."
She knew there was more to that story—something painful, something he wasn't ready to share yet. She didn't push.
"I'm glad you showed me," she said instead. "I'm glad you trusted me."
"I'm glad you let me."
They sat in the candlelit warmth, holding hands across the table, and the last of her walls dissolved.
"I don't want any more dinner," she said.
"No?"
"No."
He came around the table and pulled her to her feet with hands that were steady but warm.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kissed her—properly this time, deeply, with none of the careful restraint he'd been maintaining all week. His hands found her waist, her back, the curve of her hip, and she pressed into him and let herself feel everything.
"Bedroom," she managed.
"Bossy."
"Is that a complaint?"
"It's an observation."
She laughed against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, and then he was lifting her and carrying her through a doorway she barely noticed, setting her down next to a bed scattered with what might have been flower petals.
"Did you—are those rose petals?"
"Too much?"
"Just enough."
"May I remove this very pretty dress?" he whispered. "I've been imagining removing it all evening."
Her laugh was unsteady. "You may."
He unzipped the dress with reverent fingers, letting it pool around her ankles before gently lifting her out of it. Her bra and underwear followed, and then she was standing before him, entirely naked in the candlelight.
He stared. Just looked, his eyes traveling over every inch of her with such open appreciation that she should have been embarrassed. Instead, she felt powerful.
"You are…" He shook his head, words failing him. "I don't have words."
"Your turn."
His shirt and belt were gone almost before she finished speaking. She took a step closer, running her hands over those broad shoulders and down over his stacked abdominals to the soft fur covering his lower half.
"How… How does this work?"