Page 56 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"All set," I announce to the car, to the evening air, to myself. "Just needed some oil."
Only then do I permit myself to turn, to face her — Marigold standing in her white dress against the darkening sky, her expression curious and perhaps concerned. I keep the lower half of my body angled away, partially hidden by the car's bulk.
"Shall we?" I gesture toward the passenger door, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me.
She smiles — that small, careful smile that never quite reaches her eyes — and nods. As she moves toward the car, I take one last deep breath of the cool evening air, preparing myself for the confined space of the sedan, for the concentrated presence of her, for the journey ahead.
I am a professional. I am in control. I will get her safely to my place.
But as I slide behind the wheel, her scent filling the small space between us, I know the drive ahead will be the sweetest torture I've ever endured.
11
DISTRACTIONS EQUALS HIDDEN RELIEF
~MEADOW~
"Is the car broken?"Marigold's worried voice cuts through the silence, pulling me from my dangerous thoughts. Her hands clutch the small purse in her lap, knuckles whitening against the cream-colored leather.
The interior light catches the fine bones of her wrists, making them look impossibly delicate against the dark upholstery.
I force my gaze away from those hands — hands that once crafted art through movement on stages across the country. Hands that now tremble slightly, whether from concern or something else, I can't be sure.
"Not broken," I answer, my voice coming out rougher than intended. I clear my throat and try again. "Just missing some oil. Easy fix." I turn the key, and the sedan purrs to life with minimal complaint. "These older models tend to burn through oil faster than they should."
She relaxes visibly, shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as she settles back against the seat.
"Oh. That's good."
The dashboard lights illuminate her profile — the straight nose, the high cheekbones, the curve of her lower lip. I grip the steering wheel tightly and pull out of the parking lot, focusing intently on the road ahead.
"This car feels different from the one I drove to reach the ranch for my interview," she observes after a moment, her voice thoughtful. "That one was smaller, I think."
I nod, grateful for the mundane topic.
"This is the company sedan. The one you had is similar to my personal car." I pause, then add, "A Miata. Not very practical for Willowbend winters, but it handles the curves on the mountain roads beautifully."
"Like a dancer," she says softly, then immediately looks away, as if startled by her own comparison.
The silence that follows feels weighted.
I should say something—acknowledge her past without making her uncomfortable. But my mind is too occupied with her presence beside me, with the subtle shift of her weight as she adjusts her position, with the way her scent has intensified in the confined space of the car.
"You should have something more reliable," I say finally, the words coming unbidden. "For winter. And for getting around town. Cypress should be able to hook you up with something better.”
The idea of her driving something unreliable or even getting stuck midway to work bothers him tremendously. He’d definitely be looking into other options since Marigold isn’t just a random individual.
She’s one of his…
His workers.
Who needs reliable transportation?
It’s almost amusing how I’m doing everything to convince myself of the obvious truth.
"I've been looking at used cars online," she replies, fingers idly tracing the seam of her purse. "There's a dealership in the next town over that has a few options in my price range."
I nod, making a mental note to call Javier at that dealership tomorrow.
