"I'm proposing the concept of proposing. A pre-proposal, if you will."
"That's not a thing."
"I just made it a thing."
Her heart was doing something complicated in her chest—racing and stuttering and swelling all at once. Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms and sayyes, yes, yes, let's go right now.But another part—the part that had spent twenty-six years cleaning up after her mother's impulsive decisions—felt the familiar pull of caution.
"I'm not ready," she said softly. "Not yet."
Something flickered in his expression—not disappointment, exactly, but a careful banking of hope. He nodded once, accepting. "Okay."
"It's not that I don't want—" She reached up to cup his face, needing him to understand. "I do want. Someday. I want that with you. But I spent my whole life watching my mother rush into things because they felt good in the moment, and I don't want—I can't?—"
"You don't have to explain." He caught her hands, pressing kisses to her knuckles. "I didn't ask to pressure you. I asked because I want you to know that I'm ready. Whenever you are."
The simple certainty in his voice made her eyes sting.
"When?" he asked gently. "Not now, obviously. But if you had to guess—when do you think you might be ready?"
She considered the question seriously, turning it over in her mind like she might examine a particularly unusual flower. When would she feel ready? When the shop was on more solid footing? When she'd proven to herself that she could sustain something good without sabotaging it? When she finally believed, deep in her bones, that he wasn't going to wake up one day and decide she wasn't worth the effort?
"Three months," she said finally. "Maybe. I think… three months might be enough time to feel like I'm not just caught up in the newness of everything."
"Three months." He smiled, slow and warm. "I can work with that."
"That's not a promise!"
"I know."
"It's just… a possibility."
"I heard you."
"You're grinning."
"Am I?" The grin widened. "Hadn't noticed."
She tried to scowl at him but couldn't quite manage it. "You're impossible."
"Absolutely." He pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers. "But you love me anyway."
"I do." The words still felt new, precious, like a gift she hadn't quite gotten used to receiving. "I really do."
Three Months Later…
The harvest festivalhad come and gone, giving way to the bright colors of fall. The first real frost had arrived last week, painting Harmony Glen in shades of red and gold, and Bloom & Vine had been busy with fall arrangements and winter wedding consultations.
Marigold sat in the passenger seat of Thallos's truck, watching the streets of the city slip past the window. They'd spent the morning at a supplier meeting in the city—boring for him, she suspected, but he'd insisted on coming along anyway—and now she was looking forward to getting back to the shop and his cozy cabin and maybe a cup of that spiced wine he'd been perfecting for the holiday market.
"You're quiet," he observed, navigating around a slow-moving tractor.
"Just thinking about everything I need to finish before the Jenkins wedding on Saturday."
"The one with the ice sculpture centerpieces?"
"The one with the ice sculpture centerpieces and the three hundred white roses and the mother-of-the-groom who changes her mind every five minutes." She rubbed her temples. "I may need to buy stock in aspirin."
"Or you could let Jenny handle Mrs. Jenkins and focus on the creative stuff."
