Something in her tone made Rachel pause. He watched, fascinated, as Marigold's entire demeanor shifted. Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted. The nervous, uncertain woman from the previous day had vanished, replaced by someone with ice in her veins.
"What?" Rachel asked.
"I'm genuinely curious." Marigold's voice was pleasant, almost conversational. "Do you practice being this unpleasant, or does it come naturally? Because the consistency is really impressive. Every time I see you, you have something cutting to say. It must be exhausting, putting that much energy into being awful."
Rachel's mouth fell open.
"I mean, I get that you're probably unhappy," Marigold continued. "Happy people don't spend their Sunday mornings lurking outside coffee shops waiting to insult strangers. But taking out your dissatisfaction on everyone around you won't actually make your life any better. Have you considered therapy? Or a hobby? Crochet is very calming, I'm told."
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Rachel's face had gone an interesting shade of red. "How dare you?—"
"I dare because I've realized something recently." Marigold took another step forward. Rachel, incredibly, took a step back. "Your opinion of me doesn't matter. At all. Not even a little bit. You can spend your whole life making snide comments and spreading gossip, and it won't change anything about who I am or what I have." She glanced back at him, her expression softening momentarily. "I have everything I want. Can you say the same?"
Rachel's mouth worked, but no sound came out.
"Enjoy your coffee," Marigold said sweetly. "Come on, Thallos."
She turned and walked away, leaving Rachel sputtering on the sidewalk. He followed, his heart so full he thought it might burst.
They made it around the corner before he broke.
"That," he said, pulling her into a narrow alley between two shops, "was the sexiest thing I have ever seen."
Her composure cracked, and a giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of her. "Oh God, did I really just do that?"
"You absolutely did." He crowded her against the brick wall, bracketing her with his arms. "You eviscerated her. In broad daylight. With crochet references."
"I don't even know where that came from!"
"It came from the fact that you're magnificent." He kissed her—hard, thorough, and extremely inappropriate for a public alley. "I think I may have fallen even more in love with you in the last three minutes."
She went still against him.
*Love,* he realized. He'd said the word love again.
For a moment, panic flickered through him. Too soon. Too fast. He'd promised to be patient, to give her time, and here he was blurting out declarations in alleyways like a lovesick teenager.
But Marigold's eyes were soft when she looked up at him. Not scared. Not pulling away. Just… soft.
"That's a big word," she said quietly.
"I know." He swallowed hard. "I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to pressure you. You don't have to say it back. I just?—"
She reached up and pressed a finger to his lips.
"Not yet," she said. "I'm not ready yet. But… soon."
Soon. He could work with soon.
"Okay," he said around her finger. "Soon."
She smiled—that quiet, devastating smile that always knocked the wind out of him—and rose up to kiss him again.
The flower shop came into view a few minutes later.
Bloom & Vine looked peaceful in the morning light, its window boxes overflowing with colorful blossoms, its green awning providing welcoming shade. The vines that he had coaxed into flowering on that first night were still thriving, their delicate white blooms bright against the brick.
