Page 60 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Okay," she says cautiously.
The words stick in my throat.
How do I ask this without sounding presumptuous? Without revealing too much of my own response to her? Without making her uncomfortable?
"It's just that I noticed..." I begin, then falter. My gaze drops briefly to her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "You seem uncomfortable. Restless."
A flush spreads across her cheeks, visible even in the dim light.
"Oh," she says softly. "I didn't realize it was so obvious."
"It's not," I hasten to reassure her. "I'm just...observant."
That's an understatement.
Every cell in my body is attuned to her, alert to the smallest change in her posture, her expression, her scent. Especially her scent, which continues to evolve in subtle ways that make my blood run hot and my self-control fray at the edges.
"I'm fine," she says, but her voice lacks conviction. She shifts in her seat, a small adjustment that sends a fresh wave of her scent toward me. "Really."
I close my eyes briefly, gathering my resolve.
When I open them, I find her watching me with an intensity that matches my own. Our gazes lock, and something passes between us — an acknowledgment, perhaps, of the current running beneath the surface of our careful interaction.
"The pharmacy will be closing soon," I say, nodding toward the building. "If you need...anything. Before they do."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed swiftly by embarrassment.
"Oh," she says again, the single syllable carrying a weight of realization. "You think I'm?—"
"I don't think anything," I interrupt gently. "I just want to make sure you have what you need. Just in case."
She looks down at her hands, then back up at me. In the shadows, her eyes are pools of darkness, fathomless and unreadable.
"That's very... considerate of you."
The word hangs between us, insufficient for the moment but all we have. Considerate. As if my actions stem from some impersonal sense of duty rather than the overwhelming need to protect her, to care for her, to be whatever she needs me to be.
"Part of the job," I reply, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
This has nothing to do with my role at the ranch as her “boss” and everything to do with the way my body responds to hers, with the connection I felt from the moment she stepped into my office looking for a place to start over.
She's silent for a long moment, studying me in the darkness.
I wonder what she sees — a professional doing his job?
A man barely holding onto his control?
Something in between?
"I appreciate your concern," she says finally, her voice soft but steady. "But I'm not... that is, I don't think..." She takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. "I've never experienced that…actually. Well, going into Heat, I guess. As an Omega. At least…not fully."
Oh.
The admission hits me with unexpected force.Never experienced that.A full Heat, she means. It's not unheard of — some omegas have irregular cycles, especially those who've been on suppressants for extended periods or who've experienced significant trauma. And Marigold has certainly had her share of trauma.
"I see," I say, though I don't see at all. I'm navigating blind, with only fragments of information and my own instincts to guide me. "But you're feeling... something?"
She nods slowly, a barely perceptible movement in the darkness.
