Page 43 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"He was being polite."
"Meadow's polite to everyone, honey, but he doesn't make everyone lunch." Daisy pauses. "You know, in the three years I've worked here on the once-in-a-new-moon basis, I've never seen him go out of his way like that for anyone outside his pack."
Something flutters in Marigold's chest —a dangerous, fragile hope she's afraid to examine too closely.
"Is he..." The question forms before she can stop it. "I mean, does he have someone? An omega or...?"
The words hang in the air, vulnerable and exposing.
Marigold immediately wishes she could snatch them back.
Daisy's laugh is warm and free of judgment.
"Well, well! Look who's interested in our resident strong, silent Alpha." She taps Marigold playfully with the brush handle. "No, honey. Meadow's been on his own as long as anyone around here can remember. Plenty has tried, but he's always been more married to this land than interested in finding a mate, let alone an Omega at that."
"I'm not interested," Marigold protests, though her rapid pulse betrays her. "Just curious. Professional curiosity."
"Sure," Daisy drawls, her eyes twinkling. "And I'm just professionally curious about whether you're blushing right now."
Marigold presses her cool palms to her heated cheeks.
"It's hot in here!"
"It's sixty degrees, sweetie."
A deep chuckle interrupts them — masculine, amused, and undeniably close.
Marigold's spine straightens instinctively, a reflexive posture correction born from years of ballet training that now serves as her defense mechanism.
"Meadow's a hard nut to crack, but worth the effort," says the unfamiliar voice. "Though I wouldn't say he's immune to connection…just waiting for the right reason to put down those walls."
Marigold turns slowly, mortification creeping up her neck like a hot tide.
Standing in the doorway is a tall, broad-shouldered man, arms crossed over his chest and an easy smile playing on his lips. His scent — earthy, metallic, with undertones of cedar — marks him unmistakably as Alpha.
The scent drives her wild as heat rushes to her cheeks and right to her core, making it so easy for slick to pool between her legs.
She fights the urge to press her thighs together, as if they aren’t already side by side.
"I—" Words fail her, and she curses the traitorous flush rising to her cheeks. It feels so young, so foolish, to be caught wondering aloud.
Her hands twist the brush she's holding, knuckles whitening.
The man's smile widens, revealing a chipped front tooth that somehow adds character to his rugged face rather than detracting from it.
"Don't mind me. I've got terrible timing according to my mother."
He steps forward, extending a hand that's a map of calluses and old burns.
"Flint Sutter. The resident metal-bender."
"Blacksmith," Daisy corrects with an eye roll. "And professional eavesdropper, apparently."
Marigold hesitates, then takes his offered hand. His grip is firm but measured, as though he's consciously holding back his strength.
"Marigold," she manages, her voice steadier than she feels. "I wasn't...I didn't mean to pry."
"Curiosity's healthy," Flint says with a shrug of shoulders that looks capable of carrying the weight of the world.
