Chapter 21 #2
He felt lighter than he had in years. The knot of anxiety that had lived in his chest since the restaurant—hell, since long before that—had finally loosened. She was here. She'd stayed. She'd chosen him.
The thought still sent a thrill through him every time it crossed his mind.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, glancing up at him.
"You."
"Be more specific."
"I'm thinking about how I can't believe you're real. How I can't believe we're together. How I'm half convinced I'm going to wake up and discover this was all an extremely vivid dream."
"That's very sweet."
"I'm also thinking about what you look like without clothes."
She choked on a laugh. "Less sweet."
"I contain multitudes."
They reached the edge of the vineyard and turned onto the road that led towards town.
The shops and houses of Harmony Glen spread out before them, picturesque and familiar.
The Sanderson house gleamed white in the morning sun.
The bakery's chimney was already puffing fragrant smoke.
A few early risers walked dogs or jogged along the sidewalks.
It was, he reflected, an almost offensively perfect morning.
Of course, that's when Rachel appeared.
She emerged from the coffee shop just as they approached, her immaculate appearance suggesting she'd been awake for hours despite it being barely past nine. Her blonde hair was swept up in an elaborate style. Her makeup was flawless. Her dress was perfectly tailored to her figure.
Her expression, when she spotted them, went through a fascinating series of transformations—surprise, calculation, and finally a sharp, brittle smile.
"Well, well." Rachel's voice carried easily across the quiet street. "Look who's doing the walk of shame."
He felt Marigold stiffen beside him. His own jaw tightened, but he kept his voice pleasant. "Good morning, Rachel. Lovely day."
"Is it?" She tilted her head, her gaze raking over Marigold's wrinkled clothes with obvious satisfaction. "I heard about that scene at dinner last night. Poor Daisy. She must be absolutely mortified, having her daughter cause such a spectacle."
"Rachel," he said warningly.
"I'm just saying." Rachel's smile sharpened. "Some of us were raised to handle our personal business in private. But I suppose standards vary."
He opened his mouth to respond, to defend Marigold and shut Rachel down, but before he could speak, Marigold stepped forward.
"Actually, Rachel, I have a question."
Something in her tone made Rachel pause. He watched, fascinated, as Marigold's entire demeanor shifted. Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted. The nervous, uncertain woman from the previous day had vanished, replaced by someone with ice in her veins.
"What?" Rachel asked.
"I'm genuinely curious." Marigold's voice was pleasant, almost conversational.
"Do you practice being this unpleasant, or does it come naturally?
Because the consistency is really impressive.
Every time I see you, you have something cutting to say.
It must be exhausting, putting that much energy into being awful. "
Rachel's mouth fell open.
"I mean, I get that you're probably unhappy," Marigold continued.
"Happy people don't spend their Sunday mornings lurking outside coffee shops waiting to insult strangers.
But taking out your dissatisfaction on everyone around you won't actually make your life any better.
Have you considered therapy? Or a hobby? Crochet is very calming, I'm told."
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Rachel's face had gone an interesting shade of red. "How dare you—"
"I dare because I've realized something recently.
" Marigold took another step forward. Rachel, incredibly, took a step back.
"Your opinion of me doesn't matter. At all.
Not even a little bit. You can spend your whole life making snide comments and spreading gossip, and it won't change anything about who I am or what I have.
" She glanced back at him, her expression softening momentarily.
"I have everything I want. Can you say the same? "
Rachel's mouth worked, but no sound came out.
"Enjoy your coffee," Marigold said sweetly. "Come on, Thallos."
She turned and walked away, leaving Rachel sputtering on the sidewalk. He followed, his heart so full he thought it might burst.
They made it around the corner before he broke.
"That," he said, pulling her into a narrow alley between two shops, "was the sexiest thing I have ever seen."
Her composure cracked, and a giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of her. "Oh God, did I really just do that?"
"You absolutely did." He crowded her against the brick wall, bracketing her with his arms. "You eviscerated her. In broad daylight. With crochet references."
"I don't even know where that came from!"
"It came from the fact that you're magnificent." He kissed her—hard, thorough, and extremely inappropriate for a public alley. "I think I may have fallen even more in love with you in the last three minutes."
She went still against him.
*Love,* he realized. He'd said the word love again.
For a moment, panic flickered through him. Too soon. Too fast. He'd promised to be patient, to give her time, and here he was blurting out declarations in alleyways like a lovesick teenager.
But Marigold's eyes were soft when she looked up at him. Not scared. Not pulling away. Just… soft.
"That's a big word," she said quietly.
"I know." He swallowed hard. "I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to pressure you. You don't have to say it back. I just—"
She reached up and pressed a finger to his lips.
"Not yet," she said. "I'm not ready yet. But… soon."
Soon. He could work with soon.
"Okay," he said around her finger. "Soon."
She smiled—that quiet, devastating smile that always knocked the wind out of him—and rose up to kiss him again.
The flower shop came into view a few minutes later.
Bloom it was about finally standing on her own two feet. About breaking a pattern that had defined her entire life.
"I'll be here," he said. "Downstairs. In the shop. Whatever you need."
She shook her head. "Go back to the vineyard. I'll come find you when it's over."
"Marigold—"
"Please." She met his eyes. "I need to do this myself. All the way. No safety net."
He wanted to argue. Every protective instinct he had was screaming at him to stay, to be nearby, to be ready to intervene if things went wrong.
But he saw the determination in her face—the same steel he'd glimpsed when she'd walked away from her mother last night, when she'd dismantled Rachel just moments ago.
She was stronger than she knew. And she was right—this was her battle to fight.
"Okay." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'll be at the cabin. Come find me when you're done. We can plan our hermit life."
A surprised laugh escaped her. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I—" She caught herself, but her eyes were shining. "I'll see you later."
She turned and walked toward the shop. He watched her go—her head high, her shoulders straight, her whole bearing radiating quiet determination.
*That's my girl,* he thought. *That's my incredible, brave, magnificent girl.*
She didn't look back as she opened the door. She didn't hesitate on the threshold. She walked through and started up the stairs to the apartment above, ready to face whatever waited for her.
The door swung shut behind her.
He stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, watching the windows above the shop. Part of him wanted to stay anyway—to lurk out of sight, ready to charge in if needed. But that would undermine everything she was trying to do.
*Trust,* he reminded himself. She was trusting him with her heart. He could trust her with this.
He turned and started walking back toward the vineyard.