"The look Torin gets when he's trying to pretend nothing's wrong but his whole face is basically a neon sign saying 'SOMETHING IS DEFINITELY WRONG.'" She took a sip of her coffee. "Or in your case, 'SOMETHING DEFINITELY HAPPENED.'"
She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into her palms. The café bustled around them—a pixie arguing with the barista about dairy alternatives, two elderly gnomes debating the finer points of competitive gardening, a young mother trying to wrangle a toddler whose skin kept flickering between human and something decidedly greener.
Normal. This was all perfectly normal for Harmony Glen.
So why did everything feel tilted sideways?
"He kissed me," she said finally. "Again. More than kissed, actually."
Lila's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Define 'more than kissed.'"
"I'm not—it didn't go that far. But it was…" She trailed off, unsure how to put it into words. *Intense? Earth-shattering? The single most alive she'd felt in years?* "It was a lot."
"And this is a bad thing because…?"
"Because it wasn't like me." She stared into her coffee like it might hold answers. "I don't do things like that. I don't let myself get swept up in… in passion and desire and—god, listen to me, I sound like a bodice ripper."
"You say that like it's an insult."
"Lila."
"I'm serious!" Lila leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Mari, you've spent almost your entire life being careful. Being responsible. Cleaning up your mother's messes and making sure everyone else was okay while you quietly fell apart in corners where no one could see. When exactly were you supposed to have time for passion and desire?"
"That's not?—"
"It is. And I love you, you know I do, but watching you build walls around yourself like some kind of emotional fortress has been painful. If Thallos managed to get past those walls, even for a night, maybe that's not something to be afraid of."
The words landed somewhere soft and vulnerable, a place she had spent years protecting. She wanted to believe them. She wanted to accept that what had happened in the grove was simple and good and nothing to be ashamed of.
But then she remembered her mother, sitting at a different kitchen table, saying almost the same thing. *He makes me feel alive, Marigold. Don't you want me to be happy?*
And look how that had turned out. Again and again and again.
The bell above the door chimed.
She glanced up automatically, and her stomach dropped.
Rachel stood in the entrance, looking perfectly put together in a crisp white blouse and designer jeans that probably cost more than Marigold's entire wardrobe. Her sharp features scanned the café cataloging social hierarchies, and when her gaze landed on their table, her glossy red lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Well, well." She glided over, ignoring the line for the counter like it was beneath her notice. "The local florist and the… what is it you do again?"
"Artist," Lila said flatly. "I own a gallery."
"Right. The one in that drafty old cottage." Rachel's eyes slid to Marigold. "I heard you were at the vineyard last night. Late."
The words hung in the air, sharp-edged and deliberate.
"Festival planning," she managed. "We had to discuss the layout for?—"
"Oh, I'm sure that's what you were discussing." Rachel's laugh was a precise, cutting thing. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You're hardly the first."
Her hand tightened around her mug. "Excuse me?"
"The first woman to fall for Thallos's little act." Rachel examined her manicure with studied casualness. "He does this, you know. Finds some sweet, naive thing and makes her feel special. The attention, the charm, those meaningful looks—he's perfected it, really. It's almost an art form."
"That's not?—"
"There was a dryad last year. Very pretty, very innocent. She thought she was different too." Rachel shrugged one elegant shoulder. "She moved away after he got bored. She couldn't stand running into him at the market, I suppose."
