The walk home felt shorter than the walk into town, despite the growing darkness. His hooves found the road without guidance, following the familiar path while his mind wandered elsewhere.
He thought about the way she'd softened during the wine tasting, her careful critiques giving way to genuine appreciation. He thought about the flash of real interest in her eyes when he'd mentioned his mother, the way she'd said you can tell me as though she actually meant it.
He thought about the way she'd tasted.
*Wine and honey,*his memory supplied helpfully. And something else. Something he couldn't quite identify. Something that made him want to chase it, to catalogue it, and to spend hours exploring every variation.
He was in trouble. Deep, profound, probably irreversible trouble.
The vineyard appeared ahead, its neat rows silver-touched by the rising moon. Home. Safety. The place where he was supposed to be able to think clearly, away from distractions. But as he passed between the first rows of vines, as his hand trailed automatically along the leaves, he knew that thinking clearly was no longer an option.
Marigold Bloom had gotten under his skin.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that she didn't even seem to want to be there.
He didn't go inside right away.
Instead, he walked through the vineyard, letting the familiar rhythm of the vines soothe his churning thoughts. The Riesling his mother had planted. The Pinot Noir he'd grafted himself, three years ago, using techniques he'd learned from a particularly surly old winemaker in Sonoma. The experimental rows near the eastern edge where he was trying to develop something entirely new.
His magic hummed beneath his skin, responding to the life around him. He could feel every vine, every leaf, every grape beginning to swell toward ripeness. The vineyard was healthy. Thriving. A living testament to his family's legacy and his own dedication.
And yet.
He paused at the edge of the main lawn, looking out over the space that would soon host the Summer Dance Festival. The space where he would see Marigold again, probably multiple times, as they worked through the logistics of the event.
*She pulled away,*he reminded himself.*Twice. She doesn't want what I'm offering.*
But that wasn't quite true, was it? She'd kissed him back, even if only for a moment. She'd let herself be impressed by the flowers. And underneath all her careful distance, he'd glimpsed something that looked an awful lot like longing.
The question was: longing for what?
For connection? For touch? For someone to break through her walls? He didn't know. But he found himself wanting to find out. He found himself wanting, quite badly, to be the one she let in.
*Patience,*he told himself as he finally turned toward the house. She's not a vine you can coax into blooming with a touch. She's a person with her own timeline, her own wounds, her own reasons for caution.
He would wait.
CHAPTER 5
The dead bolt she rarely used slid home with a satisfying click. Marigold pressed her back against the door and stood there, breathing hard, as though she'd sprinted the last few blocks instead of walking them at a deliberately measured pace. Her heart was pounding in a rhythm that felt more like jazz than a waltz, all syncopation and unexpected beats.
*He kissed me.*
No. Wait. That wasn't quite right. Because she'd had a chance to pull away and she hadn't taken it.
*I let him kiss me.*
Even worse.
She pushed away from the door and moved through her apartment on autopilot, dropping her bag on the vintage trunk that served as a coffee table, kicking off her shoes, reaching for the string of fairy lights that wound around the exposed beam above the kitchen counter.
The warm glow transformed the space instantly, chasing shadows into the corners and illuminating the life she'd built for herself here. Her sanctuary. Her proof that she could make something beautiful from nothing.
The apartment wasn't large. A tiny kitchen that opened to the living area, a bedroom barely big enough for her queen-sized bed, and a bathroom she'd painted a deep, soothing green. French doors at the back of the living room opened onto a tiny balcony with a view of the lake, just large enough for morning coffee and or a sunset glass of wine. The memory of tasting wine with Thallos flashed through her mind, but she pushed it away just as quickly.
Despite the size, she'd made every inch of the apartment count. Macramé plant hangers cascaded from the ceiling, trailing pothos and string of pearls. A Turkish rug in deep reds and golds covered the worn hardwood floor. Mismatched throw pillows in jewel tones crowded her secondhand sofa, and a bookshelf made of salvaged crates held her collection of botanical encyclopedias and dog-eared romance novels.
It was bohemian and cozy and entirely hers. No one else's taste. No one else's mess. No one else's chaos threatening to swallow it whole. Usually, walking through that door felt like exhaling after holding her breath all day.
