Page 95 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
Instead of backing down, she stepped away from him with fluid grace, putting just enough distance between them to be safe while maintaining eye contact that was purely defiant. "We should probably get back to work," she said with false innocence, though the smile playing at the corners of her mouth betrayed her satisfaction at his reaction.
She turned and walked back toward the unfinished section of fence, swaying her hips just slightly more than necessary, acutely aware of his gaze following her movement. When she glanced back over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the smirk spreading across his face—appreciation for her boldness mixed with promise of future retribution.
"You're playing with fire," he called after her, but there was laughter in his voice along with the heat.
"Maybe I like the warmth," she replied, picking up her tools and trying to look busy despite the way her hands were trembling with adrenaline and arousal.
They returned to work with an energy that crackled between them, every interaction charged with new awareness. When their hands brushed as they reached for the same tool, the contact sent sparks through both of them. When she had to squeeze past him in the narrow space between posts, the brief press of their bodies together made them both catch their breath.
The work itself became a form of foreplay—the shared rhythm, the way they moved around each other with increasingfamiliarity, the satisfaction of completing tasks together. Marigold found herself stealing glances at the way his muscles moved under his shirt, the concentration on his face as he worked, the competent grace of his hands as they manipulated tools and materials.
By the time they finished the fence repairs, the sun was high overhead and they were both flushed with heat and exertion. The completed work stretched before them—straight and strong, a tangible result of their shared effort that felt like a metaphor for something larger.
"Good work," Meadow said, surveying their handiwork with satisfaction. "This should hold through anything winter throws at it."
"I can't believe how satisfying that was," Marigold admitted, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "There's something about building something together, making it better than it was before."
"Exactly," he agreed, and the way he looked at her suggested he was thinking about more than just fence construction.
They gathered their tools in companionable quiet, the ease between them now seasoned with anticipation and unspoken promise. As they prepared to walk back toward the main ranch buildings, Marigold felt a sense of accomplishment that went beyond the completed fence—she'd pushed herself out of her comfort zone, both in terms of the clothes she'd worn and the way she'd responded to Meadow's attention, and discovered new aspects of herself she hadn't known existed.
The sound of an approaching vehicle broke the peaceful quiet, and they both looked up to see a pickup truck moving down the dirt road that ran parallel to the pasture. The truck was moving faster than was typical for the area, throwing up a cloud of dust that made it initially difficult to identify the driver.
As the vehicle drew closer, Marigold recognized Cypress behind the wheel, his distinctive profile visible through the windshield. But instead of slowing down or stopping, he maintained his speed while rolling down the passenger window.
"Found this in your old drawer!" he called out, his voice carrying clearly across the distance as he tossed something from the moving truck.
The object landed in the grass near their feet—a silk scarf in shades of blue and green that Marigold recognized with a jolt of surprise. She bent to pick it up, the fabric soft and familiar in her hands, bringing with it a flood of memories from her college years.
"I wore this all the time junior year," she said wonderingly, examining the scarf as if it might hold secrets. "But I thought I'd lost it when I moved out of the dorms. Why didn't he stop?"
Meadow's expression had grown carefully neutral as he watched the truck disappear around a bend in the road, leaving only settling dust to mark its passage. There was tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there moments before, a guardedness that suggested he understood something about Cypress's action that she didn't.
"It's an old small town tradition," he explained, his voice carrying none of the warmth that had characterized their morning together. "Though not one that's practiced much anymore."
"What kind of tradition?" she asked, noting the way his jaw had tightened and wondering what she was missing.
Meadow was quiet for a long moment, seeming to weigh his words carefully before responding. "It's something you do to indicate interest in a single woman," he said finally. "Returning something personal, something that shows you've been thinking about her."
The explanation hit her like a physical blow, understanding dawning with uncomfortable clarity. "Oh," she said quietly, looking down at the scarf in her hands with new eyes. "So he's... he's actually pursuing me?"
The idea was both flattering and deeply unsettling. She'd thought their reunion had provided closure, that the apology and explanation had allowed them both to move forward as friends. To learn that Cypress might be viewing their renewed contact as an opportunity rather than resolution complicated everything.
"But he's an Omega though," she said, looking up at Meadow with confusion. "Wouldn't that be odd for our dynamic? I mean, I know relationships between Omegas exist, but typically there's an Alpha involved in the equation, right?"
Meadow's silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the truck had disappeared rather than on her face. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.
"Cypress being an Omega isn't the problem here," he said quietly.
The cryptic response only deepened her confusion. She studied his profile, noting the tension around his eyes, the way his hands had clenched into fists at his sides. There was clearly more to this situation than she understood, layers of meaning and history that she wasn't privy to.
"Then what is the problem?" she asked, though something in his demeanor suggested he wasn't going to provide the clarity she was seeking.
"We shouldn't worry about it," he said, turning back toward her but not quite meeting her eyes. "Are you going to keep the scarf?"
Marigold looked down at the silk in her hands, feeling its softness between her fingers while processing the complexemotions the morning had stirred up. The scarf represented her past self—the young woman who'd believed in fairy tale endings and trusted people who ultimately betrayed that trust. The woman who'd shaped her identity around other people's expectations and approval.
For a moment, she considered keeping it. It was beautiful, after all, and it held memories of a time when life felt full of possibility. But as she stood there in her work clothes, skin flushed from honest labor and genuine connection, she realized that holding onto remnants of her former life would only weigh her down.
