Page 94 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Meadow Calloway," he answered, his voice slightly strained as he turned partially away from her to take the call.
Marigold used the interruption to collect herself, pressing her palms to her heated cheeks and trying to slow her racing heart. The brief contact had left her feeling off-balance, hyperaware of her own body in ways that the modest clothes she usually wore had helped her avoid. There was something liberating about the way Meadow looked at her in this outfit, as if he was seeing aspects of her that had been hidden before.
When he finished the call—something about a delivery that would be delayed until the afternoon—he turned back to her with an expression that was carefully neutral, though she could still see the heat lingering in his eyes.
"Ready to get to work?" he asked, gesturing toward the section of fence that clearly needed attention.
"Absolutely," she replied, grateful for the chance to focus on something concrete and achievable rather than the complex emotions swirling between them.
The fence repair work proved to be exactly what she needed—physical labor that required concentration and cooperation, grounding her in the present moment while allowing the tension to dissipate into something more manageable. Meadow showed her how to properly tension wire, how to secure posts that had worked loose over the winter, how to identify weak spots that needed reinforcement before they became major problems.
Working alongside him felt natural in a way that continued to surprise her. They fell into an easy rhythm, sharing tools and responsibilities without need for extensive communication, each anticipating what the other needed almost before they needed it. When he held a post steady, she was already reaching for the hammer. When she struggled with a particularly stubborn pieceof wire, he was there with steady hands to help without making her feel incompetent.
The physical nature of the work meant they were often in close proximity—reaching across each other for tools, steadying sections of fence while the other worked, moving around each other in the confined space between posts. Each brief contact sent sparks through her system, making her hyperaware of the heat radiating from his body, the play of muscles under his shirt as he worked, the way sweat gathered at his temples despite the relatively cool morning.
"You're getting good at this," he commented as she successfully tightened a section of wire that had been giving her trouble. "Natural instinct for the work."
The praise made her glow with satisfaction, not just because she was mastering a new skill, but because it came from someone whose opinion she'd come to value deeply. Unlike the empty compliments she'd received for her ballet performances—words that felt calculated to maintain relationships rather than express genuine appreciation—Meadow's approval felt earned and honest.
"I like working with my hands," she admitted, flexing her fingers and noting the calluses that were beginning to form from weeks of ranch work. "It's satisfying in a way I never expected. Seeing immediate results from your effort, fixing something that was broken and making it stronger than before."
"That's exactly what it is," he agreed, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who'd found his calling. "There's honesty in this kind of work. You can't fake your way through it or charm it into being different than it is. Either the fence holds or it doesn't."
As the morning progressed and the sun climbed higher, Marigold became increasingly aware of the heat building both in the air around them and in her own body. The physicalexertion combined with the abbreviated clothing meant she was acutely conscious of every drop of sweat that traced paths down her skin, every breath that raised and lowered her chest, every movement that stretched fabric across her body.
More than once, she caught Meadow's gaze lingering on her exposed legs or the way her tank top clung to her torso when she stretched to reach high sections of fence. The attention wasn't leering or uncomfortable—it was appreciative and warm, making her feel beautiful rather than objectified. Still, the awareness of being watched so intently made her body hum with energy that had little to do with the work they were doing.
"Getting hot out here," Meadow observed as they paused to drink water from the thermos he'd brought along.
"Definitely," she agreed, accepting the cup he offered and trying not to think about how the innocent words seemed loaded with double meaning.
She took a long drink, grateful for the cool liquid, and when she lowered the cup, she found him watching her with an expression that made her pulse quicken. There was something almost predatory in his attention—not threatening, but intensely focused in a way that made her feel like the most interesting thing in his world.
"You've got dirt on your cheek," he said quietly, setting down his own water and moving closer.
"Where?" she asked, raising her free hand to try to locate the smudge.
"Let me," he said, his thumb brushing gently across her cheekbone in a caress that was far more intimate than necessary for removing dirt.
The touch lingered, his hand cupping her face with careful tenderness, and she found herself leaning into the contact despite every rational thought telling her to maintain somedistance. His thumb traced the line of her cheek, the gesture so gentle and reverent that it made her chest tight with emotion.
"Marigold," he said softly, her name a question and a statement all at once.
She looked up into his face, seeing her own desire reflected in his eyes, and felt the last of her hesitation melt away. When he leaned down toward her, she rose on her toes to meet him halfway, their lips coming together in a kiss that was both inevitable and perfect.
This kiss was different from their first—deeper, more confident, carrying the weight of growing familiarity and trust. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer against him, and she could feel the solid strength of his body, the way he trembled slightly with the effort of maintaining control. Her own hands found their way to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, he rested his forehead against hers and smiled—an expression that was equal parts satisfied and rueful.
"If you wear this again," he said, his voice rough with barely contained desire, "I may have to have my way with you right here on my lap."
The bold declaration sent heat flooding through her system, pooling low in her belly in a way that made her thighs clench involuntarily. For a moment, she was too stunned to respond, caught between shock at his directness and arousal at the mental images his words conjured.
Then, surprising herself with her own boldness, she looked up at him through lowered lashes and smiled with deliberate innocence. "Is that a promise or a threat?" she asked quietly, her voice carrying just enough challenge to make his eyes darken with want.
The effect of her words was immediate and visible—a flush creeping up his neck, his jaw tightening with the effort of maintaining control, his hands flexing where they rested on her waist as if he was physically restraining himself from following through on his threat.
"Marigold," he said, her name a warning and a plea all at once.
