Chapter 25
Marigold lay stretched out on the picnic blanket next to Thallos, her head pillowed on his thigh, one hand idly tracing patterns on his knee.
The afternoon sun through the leaves above them painted shifting patterns of gold across her face.
She looked… different. Lighter somehow. As if a weight she'd been carrying for years had finally slipped from her shoulders.
"She actually apologized," she said, continuing the story she'd been telling between bites of cheese and sips of wine. "I don't think I've ever heard my mother genuinely apologize for anything in my entire life."
He stroked her hair, letting the silky strands slide through his fingers. "People can surprise you."
"Daisy doesn't surprise people. Daisy is the most predictable unpredictable person I've ever met." She laughed softly, shaking her head. "I always know she's going to do something chaotic. I just never know exactly what."
"What was it this time?"
"A spiritual wellness retreat in Sedona," she said dryly. "Crystal healing, energy work, that sort of thing. She wanted me to sell the shop to fund it."
His hand stilled in her hair.
*Sell the shop.*
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He kept his face neutral, but something cold and sharp had lodged itself beneath his ribs.
"Sell the shop," he repeated carefully.
"Mmm." She seemed oblivious to his sudden tension. "It's her standard approach. Find a shiny new opportunity, convince someone else to fund it, move on when she gets bored. I've watched her do it a dozen times."
"And you said…?"
"No, obviously." She tilted her head back to look up at him, her green eyes warm and slightly puzzled. "You didn't think I'd actually consider it?"
The relief that flooded through him was embarrassing in its intensity. He covered it with a smirk, resuming his gentle stroking of her hair. "I've learned not to make assumptions about anyone's choices."
"Well, you can make assumptions about this one." She reached up and touched his jaw, her fingers soft against the stubble there. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home. The shop, the town, the—" A faint blush colored her cheeks. "The people I care about."
*The people I care about.*
He wanted to press. He wanted to ask if he was one of those people and hear her say it explicitly.
But he'd promised himself he wouldn't push.
She'd come to him last night. She'd stood up to that harpy Rachel on his behalf this morning.
She was here now, warm and soft against him, looking at him like he was something precious.
That was enough.
For now.
"So Daisy left?" he asked instead.
"No, she's staying until the festival. Hopefully she won't cause any major chaos before then." Her voice was affectionate despite the eye-roll implied in her tone. "And after that she's going to visit a 'lovely man' in Chicago. I give it three months before she's married again."
"That seems pessimistic."
"It's realistic. My mother collects husbands like other people collect stamps.
" She sat up, stretching her arms above her head in a movement that made her shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin.
His attention snagged on it like a fish on a hook.
"But that's not my problem anymore. I told her I wasn't going to keep cleaning up her messes, and she actually… accepted it. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"She said she'd try to do better. Which for Daisy is practically a blood oath.
" She turned to face him, tucking her legs beneath her.
The afternoon light caught the red highlights in her dark hair and turned them to copper.
"I think something actually got through to her.
Maybe seeing me with you—seeing that I have my own life now—made her realize I'm not just an extension of her anymore. "
There was something in her voice when she said *with you.* Something soft and wondering and entirely too vulnerable. It made him want to pull her close and never let go. It also made every protective instinct in his body flare to life, because that kind of openness could be used against her.
He'd learned that lesson the hard way.
"I'm glad," he said, meaning it. "You deserve to be seen as your own person."
"I'm starting to believe that." She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself another glass—her third, though she was pacing herself.
"It's strange. All these years I thought I was the mature one, the responsible one.
Turns out I was just enabling her. Letting her avoid consequences because it was easier than dealing with the fallout. "
"That's not an easy pattern to break."
"No." She took a sip of wine, her eyes distant. "But I think I finally have. For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm living for myself instead of in reaction to her."
The words settled into his chest, warm and bright. This was what he'd wanted for her—not just her body in his bed (though that was certainly a significant benefit) but this. Her standing on her own feet. Claiming her own space.
*Beautiful. Stubborn. Mine.*
The last thought surprised him with its ferocity.
He'd spent so long telling himself not to get attached, not to invest too heavily, not to set himself up for the kind of disappointment he'd experienced before.
But watching her bloom—pun intended—over these past weeks had worn down his defenses until they were nothing but rubble.
He loved her. Completely. Terrifyingly.
And he had no idea if she felt the same.
*One step at a time,* he reminded himself. *Don't push. Don't demand. Let her come to you.*
"So," he said, forcing lightness into his voice, "now that you've conquered your mother, what's next on the agenda?"
Her smile turned sly. "Well, there's still the matter of the festival. And a certain opening dance I'm woefully unprepared for."
"You're an excellent dancer."
"I'm an adequate dancer who occasionally manages not to step on your hooves." She set down her wine glass and leaned toward him, her eyes bright with mischief. "I was thinking we might practice tonight. In the grove."
Heat pooled low in his belly. The grove. Where the magic ran thick and the boundaries between desire and action became dangerously thin.
"Practicing," he repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Among other things." Her voice had dropped, taking on that slightly breathless quality that made him want to forget lunch entirely and carry her back to his cabin. "Unless you have other plans?"
"None that matter." He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "Tonight, then. Sunset?"
"Sunset." She shivered slightly at the touch of his lips, her pupils dilating.
"I should probably go. I need to get things organized for the week.
I'm trying to be a responsible business owner.
" She stood, brushing grass from her skirt.
"And if I stay here much longer, I'm going to do something entirely irresponsible. "
"Promises, promises."
She laughed and bent down to kiss him—a brief press of lips that turned into something longer and deeper when he caught the back of her neck and held her there. By the time they broke apart, they were both breathing harder.
"Sunset," she said again, and there was a promise in the word. "Don't be late."
"I'm never late." He released her reluctantly, watching her gather the last of her things. "I'm always exactly where I need to be, precisely when I need to be there."
"Modest, too."
"It's one of my many virtues."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she walked away, picking her way through the vineyard toward the path that led back to town. He watched until she disappeared from view, the flash of her dark hair visible between the vines until the very last moment.
*Tonight.*
The anticipation was almost painful. He could still taste her on his lips, still feel the phantom warmth of her body pressed against his.
The grove would be dangerous—the magic there amplified everything, made it harder to maintain control.
But she had asked, and there was very little in this world he would refuse her.
With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet and began gathering the remnants of their picnic.
The blanket went over his arm, the basket of food balanced against his hip.
He could have summoned one of the brownie servants who helped maintain the property, but he preferred to do certain things himself. It kept him grounded.
The walk back to his cabin took him through the heart of the vineyard, past rows of heavy-laden vines that were finally approaching their peak.
Another few weeks and he'd be knee-deep in harvest, overseeing the pressing and fermentation that would eventually become next year's vintage.
It was honest work, satisfying work—the kind that kept his hands busy and his mind from wandering into darker territories.
Not like before.
He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the practical matters at hand.
The festival was in two weeks. There were still arrangements to finalize, vendors to confirm, a hundred small details that required attention.
Working with Marigold on the planning had been unexpectedly enjoyable—she was organized in ways that complemented his chaos, meticulous where he was impulsive. They made a good team.
In more ways than one.
He was halfway up the porch steps to his cabin when he noticed the envelope tucked into the doorframe. Heavy white paper. No return address. His name written across the front in a familiar, elegant script.
The good mood that had sustained him through lunch with Marigold evaporated like morning dew.
He knew that handwriting. He would know it anywhere, having stared at it through countless letters over the years—some pleading, some threatening, all unwelcome.
*Not now. Gods, please not now.*