Page 45 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
Flint laughs, a sound she’s realizing she enjoys hearing more than any applause she’s ever received.
"I guess you're wondering which one August is, huh? You don't know because we didn't bring him with us to lunch."
"That, and I didn't think Alphas could have pink hair," Marigold admits, the corners of her mouth lifting. "Or win blue ribbons for their flowers."
"He should be back now—that is if he hasn’t gotten lost in a field somewhere."
Flint glances toward the stable door, amusement playing in the set of his mouth.
"Guess we'll find out soon enough."
"So what's August like?"Marigold asks, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Besides being bad at drawing straight lines and good at growing roses."
Flint crosses his arms, the movement highlighting the pronounced muscles that years of metalwork have sculpted. Scars —some thin and white, others newer and pink— map a history of his craft across his forearms.
His hands are a contradiction:massive yet capable of surprising delicacy, as evidenced by the wind chime.
"Gus? He's the heart of this place," Flint says, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "Gets along with every creature…four-legged or two. Alpha through and through, but not like..." He trails off, seeming to remember who he's talking to.
Marigold's stomach tightens.
Not like Rowan, he means.
Not like the Alpha who discarded her so publicly.
"Not like some," Flint finishes diplomatically. "He runs the vet clinic in town. Probably patched up half the animals in the county. Got this ridiculous pink hair he won't let grow out because the kids at the clinic love it."
The image makes Marigold smile despite herself.
"Pink hair on an Alpha? That's...unexpected."
"That's Gus," Flint says with a shrug, glancing at his watch. "Speaking of unexpected…your shift ended ten minutes ago. Want to head back? Meadow's probably wondering where you are."
The thought of Meadow waiting makes her pulse quicken slightly.
"Yes, please."
They walk side by side across the grounds, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the path. Flint's stride isunhurried but purposeful, his boots leaving heavy imprints in the soft earth where hers barely make a mark.
"I still can't believe how quiet it is here," Marigold says, inhaling deeply. The scent of hay and horse lingers on her clothes, so different from the sterile practice rooms she's used to. "In the city, there was always?—"
She stops mid-sentence, nearly colliding with Flint's broad back as he halts abruptly.
"What the?—?"
Across the path, moving like a fluffy, undulating wave across the grass, is a flood of rabbits — dozens of them, small and large, white and brown and spotted, hopping in seemingly organized chaos.
"Oh!" Marigold gasps, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a delighted laugh. "Where did they all come from?"
The bunnies stream around them, some pausing to sniff curiously at her boots before continuing their exodus. One particularly bold cottontail sits up on its hind legs, whiskers twitching as it regards her with bright, inquisitive eyes.
"Looks like someone left the hutch open again," Flint sighs, but there's no real irritation in his voice. "This happens more often than you'd think."
Marigold crouches down, extending her hand slowly toward the curious rabbit. It doesn't flee, merely twitches its nose in consideration of her offering. The dancer in her appreciates their movements — the controlled power in their small bodies, the grace of their leaps.
"They're beautiful," she whispers, as the rabbit finally decides she's acceptable and hops closer to investigate her fingers. "I've never been this close to so many before."
A deep, warm chuckle from behind her draws Marigold's attention away from the bunny investigating her fingers. Sheturns to see a man jogging toward them, his movements are fluid and purposeful despite his hurry.
