Page 77 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
The compliment sent heat rushing to her cheeks, not from attraction but from the complex mixture of pleasure and discomfort that came with being seen clearly by someone who once knew her intimately. She was hyperaware of her appearance—the white dress that Meadow's hands had rumpled, the flush that probably still lingered on her skin, the fact that her hair had escaped its careful styling to fall in waves around her shoulders.
"Thank you," she managed, her voice steady despite the emotional chaos brewing beneath the surface. "It's good to see you doing well too."
And it was, despite everything. Despite the pain of their ending, despite the questions that still lingered unanswered, despite the complication his presence represented for the new life she was trying to build—it was genuinely good to see that Cypress had found his path, that he was pursuing his art, that he seemed comfortable in his own skin in a way he wasn't when they were young.
Meadow remained silent during this exchange, but Marigold could feel his attention like a physical weight, cataloging every nuance of their interaction with the same careful observation he applied to everything that mattered to him. When she glanced at him, his expression was unreadable, carefully neutral in a waythat suggested significant thought processes occurring beneath the surface.
"We should head in," he said finally, his tone carrying a gentle encouragement that nonetheless felt like guidance. "Before Gus actually does start without us."
Marigold nodded, grateful for the direction. As they began to move toward the house, Meadow's hand found the small of her back, a gesture of support that felt both possessive and protective. The touch sent warmth radiating through her, a reminder of their own intimate moments and the connection they'd begun to build.
"Oh," Meadow said suddenly, as if just remembering something. "Marigold, you mentioned wanting to freshen up. There's a spare room upstairs where you can put your things." He paused, his voice taking on a quality that suggested deeper meaning. "In case you want to stay over tonight. After dinner and catching up."
The offer hung in the air, seemingly casual but weighted with implication. The spare room, the suggestion of staying over—it was an invitation to deepen their connection, to move beyond the careful boundaries they'd maintained until now. After what happened in the car, after the conversation about clarity and choices and new beginnings, the offer felt like a natural progression.
But it was also suddenly complicated by Cypress's presence, by the ghosts he'd inadvertently summoned, by the questions his unexpected appearance had raised about her past and her patterns and her ability to choose wisely when it came to matters of the heart.
"Thank you," she said, accepting the bag Meadow retrieved from the truck's cab—the pharmacy purchases and the small overnight kit she'd packed on impulse this morning, whenstaying over had seemed like a distant possibility rather than an immediate decision. "That's very thoughtful."
Cypress watched this exchange with interest, his photographer's eye clearly cataloging the dynamics between Meadow and her. She wondered what he saw, what story the casual intimacies told him about where they stood with each other. The thought made her self-conscious, aware that she was being observed by someone who once knew her better than anyone.
"I'll just run these upstairs," she continued, gesturing with the bag. "And then we can eat."
"First door on the right at the top of the stairs," Meadow told her, his voice carrying that warm timber that never failed to make her feel cared for. "Take your time."
Marigold headed toward the house, acutely aware that she was leaving Meadow and Cypress alone together for the first time since this unexpected reunion began. The thought should worry her—two Alphas discussing the Omega they'd both been involved with was rarely a recipe for comfortable conversation—but something about Meadow's steady presence and Cypress's genuine warmth suggested that whatever discussion they might have would be handled with the kind of maturity that spoke well of both men.
The front porch was welcoming, with wide boards worn smooth by generations of feet and rocking chairs that suggested lazy summer evenings spent watching the world go by. Wind chimes—undoubtedly Flint's handiwork based on their delicate artistry—danced in the evening breeze, creating a melody that felt like peace made audible.
Inside, the house enfolded her like a warm embrace. The entryway opened onto a living room that spoke to comfort rather than display—overstuffed furniture arranged for conversation, bookshelves filled with well-worn volumes, family photographsscattered on surfaces with the casual abundance that suggested real life rather than careful staging. The scent of cooking food—bread and roasted meat and something rich with herbs—filled the air, making her stomach growl with sudden awareness of how little she'd eaten today.
The staircase was solid oak, worn smooth by decades of use, each step creaking slightly under her weight in a way that felt homey rather than concerning. At the top, she found the door Meadow mentioned—first on the right—and pushed it open to reveal a room that took her breath away with its simple beauty.
It was clearly a guest room, but one prepared with care rather than obligation. The bed was a queen size with an iron frame painted white, covered in quilts that looked handmade with the kind of precise stitching that spoke to hours of patient work. A dresser sat against one wall, its surface bare except for a small vase of wildflowers—clearly fresh, placed there recently in preparation for potential guests. Windows faced both east and south, promising morning light and afternoon warmth, framed with simple white curtains that fluttered in the evening breeze.
But it was the small touches that made the room feel special—a comfortable reading chair positioned to catch the light, a small shelf of books for nighttime browsing, a handwoven rug that added warmth to the hardwood floors. This wasn't just a place for guests to sleep; it was a space designed to make someone feel welcomed, valued, at home.
Marigold set her bag on the dresser and took a moment to collect herself, to process the emotional whirlwind of the past hour. In the space of sixty minutes, she'd gone from anticipating a simple dinner with new friends to having her world tilted on its axis by intimate moments with Meadow and the unexpected appearance of the one man she thought she'd never see again.
The woman looking back at her from the mirror above the dresser seemed different from the one who got dressedfor dinner just hours ago. There was color in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that spoke to emotional intensity rather than simple physical exertion. Her hair had escaped its careful styling, falling in waves that framed her face with the kind of artful disorder that looked intentional but wasn't. The white dress, while slightly wrinkled from her time in the truck, still flattered her figure in a way that made her feel feminine and confident.
She looked like a woman who'd been thoroughly kissed, who'd experienced pleasure at the hands of a skilled partner, who was beginning to understand what it meant to be desired rather than simply tolerated. The realization was both empowering and terrifying—empowering because it represented growth, terrifying because it made her vulnerable to pain she thought she'd learned to avoid.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her reflection. "Marigold?" Gus's voice carried through the wood, warm with concern. "Everything okay up there? You've been gone for a while."
"Coming!" she called back, grateful for the reminder that there was a world beyond her spinning thoughts, that there were people downstairs waiting for her, that life continued to demand participation regardless of internal turmoil.
She took one last look in the mirror, smoothing her dress and finger-combing her hair into something resembling order. Whatever complexities awaited her downstairs—the growing connection with Meadow, the unexpected presence of Cypress, the questions that needed answering and the conversations that needed having—she'd face them with as much grace as she could muster.
Because running away was no longer an option. She'd done that once already, fled from pain and betrayal to this small town in search of healing and fresh starts. She wouldn't run again,not from difficulty, not from complexity, not from the messy realities of human connection that made life both beautiful and terrifying.
As she headed back downstairs, she could hear the low murmur of male voices from what must be the kitchen, punctuated by occasional laughter that suggested the conversation had remained friendly despite whatever undercurrents might exist. The sound was oddly comforting—evidence that the men in her life, past and present, were capable of civility even in potentially awkward circumstances.
The kitchen, when she found it, was everything she expected and more. It was the clear heart of the home, spacious enough for multiple cooks but cozy enough for intimate gatherings. A large farmhouse table dominated the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs that somehow worked together to create an atmosphere of casual elegance. Copper pots hung from a rack over a substantial island, their surfaces gleaming with the kind of patina that came from regular use rather than mere decoration.
Meadow stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled divine, while Flint arranged what appeared to be her charcuterie board on a wooden platter with an artist's eye for composition. Gus was pulling a tray of golden dinner rolls from the oven, the bread steaming in the kitchen's warmth, while Cypress had positioned himself near the window, camera at the ready to capture the domestic scene.
"There she is," Flint said when he spotted her, his voice carrying the kind of warm welcome that made her feel genuinely included. "Perfect timing. We were just about to start the interrogation."
