Page 53 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"You don't have to—" she begins, but he's already shaking his head.
"It's no trouble. Grew up fixing engines with my grandfather." He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture oddly vulnerable. "Besides, we've got time before dinner. Everyone's coming around seven."
She nods, grateful for the shift to practical matters. "The keys are still in the ignition."
"Perfect. Why don't you head on over to my truck?" He gestures to the black pickup parked in her drive, a well-maintained older model that suits him perfectly. "I'll just take a quick look under the hood, see if there's anything obvious."
He hesitates, then adds with a hint of that earlier intensity, "Be careful walking up the road. Those steps can be tricky."
The protective note in his voice should irritate her—she's a grown woman who's navigated marble staircases in pointe shoes, for heaven's sake—but instead, it warms something inside her that's been cold for too long. Still, she can't quite resist the urge to assert some independence.
"I'll do my best," she says with a small huff, lifting her chin slightly. "Though I did manage to live twenty-eight years without supervision."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "So noted," he replies, his tone serious but his eyes dancing with amusement. "Still wouldn't mind if you stayed upright. For the cheese's sake, if nothing else."
The teasing catches her off guard, and a genuine laugh escapes her—not the polite, measured laugh she's cultivated for social occasions, but something freer, slightly ungraceful in its spontaneity. Meadow watches her with evident appreciation, as if her laughter is a gift he hadn't expected.
"For the cheese," she agrees, suddenly lighter than she's felt in months.
He nods, then turns toward her car, giving her space to make her way to his truck without his hovering presence. The considerate gesture isn't lost on her—he's protecting her pride as much as her physical safety.
Marigold starts down the path, intensely aware of her steps now, careful not to stumble again. The gravel crunches beneath her boots, a satisfying sound in the quiet evening. She allows herself one glance back to see Meadow opening the hood of her car, his movements efficient and assured. He belongs in this landscape, she thinks—solid and real against the backdrop of golden fields and distant mountains, rooted in a way she's never been.
The thought is unexpected and unsettling in its implication. She's not looking to put down roots here. Willowbend is a sanctuary, yes, but a temporary one—a place to heal before returning to... to what, exactly? The dancing career she left behind? The city life that now feels like a fever dream? She has no concrete plans beyond surviving, beyond rebuilding herself from the fragments left after Rowan's rejection.
She pushes the thought away, focusing instead on navigating the slightly uneven ground between her cottage and Meadow's truck.
She can feel his gaze on her back, not constantly but checking periodically, making sure she's steady. The awareness of his attention makes her hyperconscious of her posture, of the sway of her hips in the white dress. She doesn't deliberately accentuate her movement, but she doesn't diminish it either.
Let him look. There’s a power in being seen, in being desired, that she’s rediscovering after months of trying to make herself invisible.
10
FAVOR IN THE MIDST OF A HEATED SILENCE
~MEADOW~
My fingers trace the dipstick methodically, but I register nothing about the oil level.
All I can focus on is Marigold standing just feet away, her white dress catching the fading light like a beacon. My body betrays me with each breath I take, each inhalation of her scent sending electricity down my spine.
I grip the hood support harder, knuckles whitening, as if the cold metal might somehow ground the current running through me.
The sedan's engine blurs before my eyes. I blink, forcing myself to concentrate on the task.
Low oil. Simple problem. Easy fix.
But my mind refuses to cooperate, dragging my attention back to her—to Marigold Everhart, former ballet dancer, current source of my unraveling.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and the motion ripples through that white dress like water over smooth stones.
It's modest enough — hitting just above her knees — but on her, it might as well be a siren's call. The fabric clings to the gentle curve of her waist before flaring slightly at her hips. Her posture, even in casual waiting, betrays her ballet training — spine straight, shoulders back, neck elongated.
A queen without a throne.
My throat constricts. I swallow hard, tasting the dryness of restraint.
"Is everything okay?" she calls, her voice carrying across the empty parking lot like silk unfurling.
