Page 101 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
The sight of him standing there covered in fruit, grinning like this was the best possible outcome, struck Marigold as so absurdly wonderful that she started laughing too. Not the polite, measured laughter she'd perfected for social situations, but the kind of full-body mirth that came from pure joy and the kind of freedom that allowed for beautiful disasters.
"We look ridiculous," she managed between giggles, noting the berry stains decorating her yellow dress like an abstract painting.
"We look happy," he corrected, stepping closer to examine the damage with mock seriousness. "Though you do have some filling on your face that's probably not intentional."
"Where?" she asked, raising her hands to her cheeks.
"Here," he said softly, his finger tracing along her jawline where a streak of dark berry juice had landed. "And here." His touch followed the stain down toward her chin, his movements gentle and deliberate.
Instead of simply wiping away the mess, he paused, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that made her heart skip severalbeats. "May I?" he asked quietly, the question both specific and general, requesting permission for something that felt much more intimate than simple cleanup.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and watched his eyes darken as he leaned closer. His tongue traced the path his finger had followed, licking away the sweet berry juice with deliberate care, the warm wetness of the contact sending shockwaves through her entire nervous system.
The public setting made the gesture even more intimate somehow—the knowledge that they were surrounded by people, that anyone could look their way and see this moment of connection. Her whole face flamed red with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment as his mouth lingered against her skin.
"Gus," she whispered urgently, her voice barely audible. "We're literally in public."
"I know," he murmured against her jaw, his breath warm on her skin. "But you taste like summer and happiness, and I couldn't resist."
The crowd around them had indeed noticed their display, and instead of disapproval or judgment, they erupted in cheers and wolf whistles, the whole town apparently delighted by this demonstration of affection. Someone shouted "Get a room!" but it was said with such obvious good humor that it only made everyone laugh harder.
"Well," Marigold said, her voice still shaky with adrenaline and arousal, "I guess we've provided the entertainment portion of the competition."
"Best kind of entertainment," Gus replied with a wink that made her stomach flutter with renewed butterflies. "Now let's finish this pie so we can win you that prize."
They returned to their work with renewed energy, the playful intimacy having somehow loosened rather than tightened the atmosphere between them. If anything, they worked even bettertogether now, their movements flowing with the kind of natural synchronicity that came from complete comfort with each other.
The lattice top was completed with professional precision, each strip perfectly placed and evenly spaced. They brushed the crust with beaten egg for a golden finish, sprinkled it with coarse sugar for extra sparkle, and carefully transferred their creation to the communal ovens that had been set up specifically for the competition.
"Into the fire it goes," Gus announced ceremoniously as they slid their pie onto the middle rack. "Now we wait and hope the baking gods smile upon our humble offering."
The waiting period was perhaps the most nerve-wracking part of the entire process. With nothing left to do but clean their station and watch the clock, anticipation built to almost unbearable levels. Other teams paced nearby, some looking confident, others clearly worried about timing or technique.
"How will we know if it's working?" Marigold asked, peering through the oven window at their pie, which looked perfect but somehow vulnerable in the industrial oven's cavernous interior.
"Trust," Gus said simply. "We did everything right, used good ingredients, worked with love and attention. Now we have to trust the process and let the pie become what it's meant to be."
The philosophy felt applicable to more than just baking, and she found herself nodding with understanding that went beyond their immediate circumstances. So much of her new life required exactly this kind of trust—faith that good intentions and honest effort would lead to positive outcomes, even when she couldn't control every variable.
When the timer finally announced that their baking time was complete, they retrieved their pie with the kind of ceremonial care usually reserved for newborns or precious artifacts. The crust was golden brown and perfectly baked, the lattice patterndistinct and beautiful, the filling bubbling gently through the gaps in a way that promised ideal consistency.
"It's gorgeous," Marigold breathed, genuinely amazed by what they'd created together. "Look at that color, those perfect edges. It looks like something from a magazine."
"It looks like something made with love," Gus corrected, his voice carrying quiet satisfaction. "Which is the only ingredient that really matters."
As they set their pie on the display table alongside the other entries, Marigold felt a surge of pride that had nothing to do with competition or winning. They'd created something beautiful together, had shared laughter and teamwork and moments of connection that would stay with her long after the judges announced their decisions.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed across the square once again, "it's time to meet our distinguished panel of judges!"
The first two judges were introduced as expected—the local bakery owner and a food writer from the regional newspaper. But when the third judge stepped forward, Marigold felt her stomach drop with recognition and something approaching dread.
"And our final judge, visiting us as part of his documentation of rural life, photographer Cypress Wolfe!"
Cypress emerged from the crowd with his characteristic easy smile, looking perfectly at home despite being an outsider to the community. He wore casual clothes—jeans and a button-down shirt—but somehow managed to look effortlessly stylish in a way that reminded her forcibly of their college years together.
"Great," she muttered under her breath, feeling the day's perfect mood threatened by this unexpected complication.
Gus glanced at her with concern. "Everything okay?"
