Daisy took his hand but didn't shake it. Instead, she turned it over, examining his palm like she was reading his fortune, then looked up at him through her lashes with the particular expression that had been making men lose their common sense for thirty-plus years.
"Please," she said, "call me Daisy. Everyone calls me Daisy. And the pleasure is entirely mine."
*Oh no,* she thought. *Oh no, no, no.*
Her mother was *flirting.*
With Thallos.
With *her* Thallos.
Some things, apparently, never changed.
CHAPTER 19
The woman holding his hand was a predator wearing a silk dress. Thallos had spent enough years navigating social waters to recognize the signs. The lingering touch. The calculated flutter of lashes. The way Daisy Bloom held his gaze just a beat too long, her smile just a little too warm.
He extracted his hand smoothly, letting none of his assessment show on his face. "Daisy, then. I hope your journey was pleasant."
"Oh, trains are never pleasant, darling. But the destination makes up for it." Daisy's attention swept over him with the kind of appreciative inventory that would have been flattering if it weren't so obviously performative. "My goodness, Marigold, you certainly have excellent taste. A satyr! How exotic."
The word hit him wrong. Calculated to seem complimentary while reducing him to a novelty.
He glanced at Marigold. She stood rigid beside her mother, her picnic basket clutched against her chest like a shield. The joyhe'd seen in her eyes when he'd walked in had been replaced by something tight and wary.
The tension filled the room like smoke, invisible but impossible to ignore. The set of Marigold's shoulders. The way her fingers had gone white around the basket handle. The careful blankness in her expression that he was beginning to recognize as her armor.
"Exotic is one word for it," Thallos said mildly. "I prefer 'local.' My family's vineyard has been here for three generations."
"Three generations!" Daisy pressed a hand to her chest as if he'd announced something remarkable. "How wonderful. Marigold, you didn't tell me your young man had roots."
"I—we haven't really discussed?—"
"I hope I'm not interrupting your plans." Daisy's voice dripped with innocent concern. "Mari mentioned a picnic. How charming! Although"—a delicate pause—"I did just arrive. It would be such a shame to spend my first day in Harmony Glen all alone."
He watched the trap close with something approaching admiration. Daisy wielded guilt like a master artist wielded a brush—subtle strokes that built into an inescapable picture. Say no, and Marigold would be abandoning her newly arrived mother. Say yes, and the private picnic they'd planned would transform into something else entirely.
Marigold's face had gone pale. "Mom, I'm sure you're tired from traveling. You could rest and we could?—"
"Rest? Darling, I've been resting for hours on that dreadful train. What I need is company. Good conversation. Maybe a tour ofthis adorable little town to get reacquainted?" Daisy turned to him, her smile soft and helpless. "You'll show me around, won't you? Since you're local and all."
"The town does have a great deal to offer visitors," he said, keeping his voice pleasant. "The Sanderson sisters do an excellent walking tour on Saturdays. It's very comprehensive."
"How sweet. But I'd much rather spend time with family." Daisy linked her arm through Marigold's, the gesture possessive despite its apparent affection. "And new friends. Dinner! We should have dinner. My treat—well, perhaps not literally, I've had the most dreadful luck with my accounts recently, but we can sort that out later—the point is, we should all get to know each other. Don't you think so, Mari?"
Marigold looked at him. Just for a moment, her mask slipped, and he saw the exhaustion beneath it. The resignation of someone who had weathered this storm before and knew exactly how it would go.
*You can say no,* he wanted to tell her. *You don't owe her anything.*
But the words wouldn't help. He could see that clearly enough. Whatever history lay between Marigold and her mother, it had roots too deep to be severed by a single refusal. Daisy had arrived with five suitcases and a lifetime of expectation, and Marigold was already buckling under the weight.
"Dinner sounds fine," Thallos said. "Where would you like to go?"
Daisy gave him a radiant smile.
The Moonlit Spoon occupied a corner of Main Street that caught the evening light perfectly. Its exposed brick walls and warm wood accents had made it a local favorite, and its menu balanced comfort food with enough sophistication to satisfy the occasional tourist. He had suggested it as a neutral ground—public enough to keep the conversation civil, familiar enough that he'd have allies if needed.
He should have picked somewhere else.
