Page 48 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
The casual reference to her former world doesn't sting as much as it might have even yesterday. Marigold finds herself smiling, a genuine expression that feels foreign but welcome on her face.
"I'll just wash up then," she says.
"Meet us in the main house in twenty?" Meadow suggests, his voice softer than the others, directed just at her. When she nods, he adds, "I can show you the way if you'd like."
"I know where it is," she answers, then hearing the abruptness of her words, adds, "but thank you." The gentleness of his offer makes her pulse quicken in a way she doesn't want to examine too closely.
As they gather the last of the rabbits into their enclosure, Marigold watches the three Alphas move around each other with the easy familiarity of people who truly know and trust one another.
There's none of the dominant posturing she's come to expect, just a simple harmony that makes something in her chest ache with longing.
"See you at dinner, Marigold," Flint calls as he departs with August, the two already engaged in animated conversation about proper rabbit-proofing techniques.
Left alone with Meadow, she feels a flutter of nervous energy.
"Their names — the rabbits —they're all flower names, aren't they?"
Meadow's eyes crinkle at the corners.
"August's idea. He said they matched you."
The comment sends heat rushing to her cheeks.
"I should go clean up," she murmurs, backing away before her scent can betray the confusing mix of emotions swirling inside her.
Walking toward her cabin, Marigold realizes she's looking forward to dinner in a way she hasn't anticipated anything in months.
The thought is terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
9
UNEXPECTED TROUBLES?
~MARIGOLD~
Marigold steps into her cottage,the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet like a familiar greeting. The evening light filters through half-drawn curtains, painting golden streaks across her sparse furniture. Her fingers trail along the back of her secondhand couch, the fabric worn but clean—just like her new life here in Willowbend. Imperfect but honest. The dinner invitation sits heavy in her thoughts, a pebble dropped in still water, rippling through her carefully constructed calm.
She peels off her day clothes, dropping them in the wicker hamper beside her bedroom door. The cottage is small enough that she can see the kitchen from her bedroom doorway—one of the charming inconveniences of country living that she's slowly learning to appreciate. Space was a luxury she'd sacrificed for distance, for the sanctuary of anonymity.
The bathroom mirror catches her reflection, and Marigold pauses. Sometimes, she still expects to see the woman from before—the principal dancer with perfect posture andconfidence woven into every limb. Instead, she sees someone softer around the edges, hair a little wilder, eyes a little wiser. She turns away before she can start cataloging the differences.
The shower's water pressure isn't what she had in the city, but the warmth is welcome against her skin. She tips her head back, letting water cascade down her face, neck, shoulders. Her muscles still hold the memory of discipline—shoulder blades pulling down and back, core engaged even in this private moment. Old habits from a dancer's life.
Shampoo lathers between her fingers, smelling of lavender and something earthy. Not the expensive salon brand she once used, but something local she'd picked up at the farmers' market. Another small adaptation to her new life. She rinses, conditions, and then stands under the spray a moment longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the day's lingering tensions.
Wrapped in a towel, hair dripping cool trails down her back, Marigold stands before her modest closet. The dinner isn't formal, but it matters. It's a step forward, a tentative reach toward belonging that both terrifies and exhilarates her. Her fingers brush past the darker colors she's favored since arriving in Willowbend—the blues and grays and blacks that helped her blend into the background, unremarkable and safe.
Today feels different. Today calls for something else.
She pulls out the white sundress she'd bought on impulse last month but never found the courage to wear. The fabric is light, airy, with embroidered marigold flowers and green leaves trailing around the hem and bodice. A dress that bears her name, like a declaration. When she'd seen it in the boutique window, she'd stopped dead in her tracks, heart squeezing with recognition. It had felt like a sign, though of what, she wasn't certain.
Marigold slips it over her head, the cotton cool against her still-warm skin. It fits perfectly—not too tight, not too loose. The skirt falls just below her knees, swishing softly when she turns to examine herself in the mirror. The white makes her skin look warmer, her eyes brighter. She looks alive. Present. The woman in the mirror looks like someone who might laugh unexpectedly, who might take a second helping of dessert, who might say yes to a dance under the stars.
The thought makes her chest tighten with something between hope and fear.
She opens her dresser drawer and retrieves a small wooden box. Inside lies a delicate gold chain with a single pearl pendant—her grandmother's, one of the few precious things she'd brought with her from her old life. She fastens it around her neck, the pearl resting in the hollow of her throat like a full moon against the night sky.
Her gaze drops to the floor of her closet, where a pair of cowboy boots sits, still looking new despite the scuffs she's added during her short time in Willowbend. She remembers buying them—her first splurge after receiving her first paycheck from the bookstore. They'd felt ridiculous and wonderful all at once. A tangible reminder that she was starting over, that she could be someone new here.
