Epilogue
The morning light filtered through unfamiliar curtains, and for one disorienting moment, Marigold couldn't remember where she was.
Then Thallos shifted beside her, his arm tightening around her waist, and everything came flooding back. The festival. The dance. That incredible, heart-stopping moment when he'd lifted his fiddle and played a song that felt like it had been written directly onto her soul.
And afterward…
Heat crept up her cheeks at the memory. She pressed her face into the pillow to hide her ridiculous smile, even though there was no one awake to see it.
"You're thinking very loudly for someone who should still be asleep."
His voice was rough with sleep, a low rumble against the back of her neck. She felt his lips curve into a smile against her skin.
"I'm not thinking loudly," she protested. "I'm just… thinking."
"About?"
"Last night."
"Ah." His hand traced lazy patterns across her stomach. "Which part? The wildly successful festival that we organized with minimal disasters? The standing ovation? Or…" His fingers dipped lower, teasing. "The other part?"
She caught his wrist before he could distract her further. "All of it. But mostly—" She turned in his arms to face him, drinking in the sight of his sleep-rumpled hair and golden-brown eyes. "The music. I've never heard anything like that."
Something soft flickered across his expression. "I've never played anything like that. Not for anyone."
"Why me?"
It was a question that had been circling in her mind since the first notes rang out across the vineyard.
Why her, of all people? The shy florist who'd spent most of her life trying to be invisible.
What had she done to deserve having someone pour their entire heart out on a stage for the whole town to see?
He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Because you're the only one I've ever trusted with it."
Oh. The simple honesty of the answer made her chest ache.
"We should probably get up," she said reluctantly. "There's cleanup to do, and I need to check on the shop, and—"
"And your mother."
The words landed between them like a stone dropped into still water. Her pleasant bubble of contentment wobbled slightly at the edges.
"She might have left already," she said, not entirely sure if she was hoping for that outcome or dreading it. "She doesn't usually stay in one place for long."
"Then let's go find out." He pressed a kiss to her forehead and sat up, the muscles of his back shifting in ways that made her momentarily forget about mothers and responsibilities entirely. "I'll make coffee. You can borrow a shirt if you don't want to do the walk of shame in that gorgeous dress."
"It's not a walk of shame if the whole town already knows we're together."
"True." He grinned over his shoulder. "It's more of a victory lap."
The walk back to Bloom & Vine was quiet in the way early autumn mornings often were—that particular hush before the world fully woke up. The festival cleanup wouldn't start for another few hours, and most of Harmony Glen seemed to still be sleeping off the previous night's celebrations.
She wore one of his button-down shirts over her dress, the hem reaching almost to her knees. It smelled like him—wine and earth and something uniquely satyr—and she found herself pressing her nose to the collar more than once.
"You keep doing that," he observed.
"Doing what?"
"Sniffing my shirt."
"I'm not—" She caught herself mid-sniff. "Okay, maybe I am. It smells good."
Bloom & Vine came into view as they rounded the corner—the sage-green facade warm and welcoming in the morning light, vines climbing up the weathered brick, the window displays still showing the summer arrangements she'd put together last week.
Her home. Her business. The one stable thing she'd managed to build in a lifetime of chaos.
The front door was unlocked.
She pushed it open cautiously, half-expecting to find Daisy reorganizing the entire shop or perhaps hosting an impromptu gathering of strangers she'd met at the festival. Instead, the space was quiet. Empty.
"Mom?"
No answer.
She moved through the shop toward the narrow staircase that led up to her apartment, Thallos following close behind. The stairs creaked their familiar greeting as she climbed.
Her apartment looked exactly as she'd left it yesterday morning—except for one thing.
A note sat propped against the coffee maker, written on Bloom & Vine stationery in Daisy's distinctive looping handwriting.
Darling,
Didn't want to wake you—you looked so peaceful when I peeked in last night, and that handsome satyr of yours seemed determined to keep you that way.
I've decided to head to Sedona after all!
A woman I met at the festival told me about an absolutely transformative crystal healing retreat, and you know how I feel about transformation.
Don't worry, I'll be back soon. I'm thinking… six months? Maybe sooner! Definitely in time to help plan the wedding. I saw the way that male looks at you—it's only a matter of time before he proposes. I have EXCELLENT taste in mother-of-the-bride dresses.
Try not to overthink everything while I'm gone. And maybe buy some lingerie that isn't cotton. Just a thought!
All my love,
Mom
P.S. I borrowed forty dollars from the register. Will pay you back!
She read the note twice, her emotions cycling through relief, exasperation, and something that might have been fondness—if she squinted.
"What does it say?" He appeared at her shoulder, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
Wordlessly, she handed him the note.
His eyebrows climbed steadily as he read, until they nearly disappeared into his hairline. When he reached the end, a laugh burst out of him—loud and genuine and startling in the quiet apartment.
"She peeked in on us?"
"That's what you're focusing on?" She snatched the note back, her face burning. "Not the part where she's already planning our wedding? We haven't even—I mean, it hasn’t even been two months of actually being together, and she's talking about mother-of-the-bride dresses!"
"To be fair, she does have excellent taste." He caught her hands before she could start stress-organizing the nearest surface. "Marigold. Breathe."
"I'm breathing!"
"You're not. You're doing that thing where you hold your breath and your shoulders creep up toward your ears and you start mentally color-coding your stress levels."
She forced herself to exhale. Her shoulders dropped from somewhere around her earlobes. "I don't color-code my stress levels."
"You have a notebook specifically for it. I've seen it."
"That's… different." She pulled away, needing to move, and found herself at the kitchen window. The view showed rooftops and chimney pots and, in the distance, the green smudge of the vineyard where everything had changed last night. "She's just so—"
"Daisy."
"Yes." The word came out somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "She's very Daisy."
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on top of her head. They stood there in silence for a moment, watching a pair of birds chase each other across the morning sky.
"You know," he said eventually, his voice carefully casual, "we could always elope."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"Elope. You, me, a spontaneous trip to somewhere beautiful, a simple ceremony with no mother-of-the-bride dress drama." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "No pressure, no planning, no Daisy."
"Are you—" She turned in his arms to face him, searching his expression for any sign that he was joking. His golden-brown eyes were warm, steady, completely serious. "Are you actually proposing right now?"
"I'm proposing the concept of proposing. A pre-proposal, if you will."
"That's not a thing."
"I just made it a thing."
Her heart was doing something complicated in her chest—racing and stuttering and swelling all at once.
Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms and say yes, yes, yes, let's go right now.
But another part—the part that had spent twenty-six years cleaning up after her mother's impulsive decisions—felt the familiar pull of caution.
"I'm not ready," she said softly. "Not yet."
Something flickered in his expression—not disappointment, exactly, but a careful banking of hope. He nodded once, accepting. "Okay."
"It's not that I don't want—" She reached up to cup his face, needing him to understand. "I do want. Someday. I want that with you. But I spent my whole life watching my mother rush into things because they felt good in the moment, and I don't want—I can't—"
"You don't have to explain." He caught her hands, pressing kisses to her knuckles. "I didn't ask to pressure you. I asked because I want you to know that I'm ready. Whenever you are."
The simple certainty in his voice made her eyes sting.
"When?" he asked gently. "Not now, obviously. But if you had to guess—when do you think you might be ready?"
She considered the question seriously, turning it over in her mind like she might examine a particularly unusual flower.
When would she feel ready? When the shop was on more solid footing?
When she'd proven to herself that she could sustain something good without sabotaging it?
When she finally believed, deep in her bones, that he wasn't going to wake up one day and decide she wasn't worth the effort?
"Three months," she said finally. "Maybe. I think… three months might be enough time to feel like I'm not just caught up in the newness of everything."
"Three months." He smiled, slow and warm. "I can work with that."
"That's not a promise!"
"I know."
"It's just… a possibility."
"I heard you."
"You're grinning."
"Am I?" The grin widened. "Hadn't noticed."
She tried to scowl at him but couldn't quite manage it. "You're impossible."
"Absolutely." He pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers. "But you love me anyway."