"When?" she asked finally.
"Tomorrow evening? After the shop closes. The light is best around sunset."
"That's…" She shook her head. "That's almost romantic. You know that, right?"
"Is that a problem?"
Their eyes met. Held.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Ask me tomorrow."
It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either.
He smiled.
"I'll bring the wine."
She left an hour later, a folder of paperwork tucked under her arm, and an expression on her face that he couldn't quite read. He watched her drive away until the dust from her tires had settled and the sound of her engine faded into silence, then turned back to his empty cabin.
It felt larger now. Quieter.
He crossed to the window, looking out towards the grove. The trees were visible from here, dark shapes against the evening sky. The oaks had been there for hundreds of years, steeped in magic long before they'd come to this land. His mother had danced among them, bare feet on sacred ground, celebrating cycles and seasons and the endless turning of the world.
And now Marigold would dance there too.
*She doesn't know,* he thought. *She doesn't know what it means to be invited there. What I'm offering.*
Maybe that was better. Maybe letting her discover it gradually, letting her feel the magic of the place before he explained it, would be easier than dropping the full weight of his heritage on her shoulders.
Or maybe he was just afraid.
*Patience,* he reminded himself. *I promised her patience.*
But as he stood there watching the last light fade from the sky, he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out. He wanted her. He wanted her with an intensity that bordered on obsession. And after feeling her in his arms and tasting her on his lips, he knew she wanted him too.
The question was whether she'd let herself have what she wanted, what they both wanted.
Or whether she'd burn it all down before either of them got the chance.
CHAPTER 9
Marigold stood in front of her closet, hands on her hips, glaring at the contents like they'd personally offended her.
*It's just a dance lesson,* she told herself for the fourteenth time. *Not a date. Not a… whatever yesterday was. Just two co-chairs practicing for an event*.
The floral sundress hanging on the closet door called her a liar.
She'd pulled it out twenty minutes ago, considered it, rejected it, hung it back up, then pulled it out again. The fabric was soft and flowing, the kind that moved beautifully when she walked—or danced, presumably—with tiny wildflowers printed across a sage green background that Lila had once said brought out her eyes.
*Too much,* she decided. *It looks like I'm trying.*
She shoved it back into the closet and reached for her usual work clothes instead. A simple white cotton blouse. Straight-legged black pants. Her most boring cardigan. Practical flats that she could flee in if necessary.
The mirror reflected someone who looked like she was headed to a very casual funeral.
"Oh, for—" She yanked off the cardigan and threw it on the bed.
This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. She was a grown woman who ran her own business and managed difficult suppliers and had survived twenty-six years on this planet without spontaneously combusting from embarrassment. She could handle one dance lesson with one unfairly attractive satyr without turning into a complete disaster.
