Page 24 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

DISTRACTIONS EQUALS HIDDEN RELIEF

~ M EADOW~

"Is the car broken?" Marigold's worried voice cuts through the silence, pulling me from my dangerous thoughts. Her hands clutch the small purse in her lap, knuckles whitening against the cream-colored leather.

The interior light catches the fine bones of her wrists, making them look impossibly delicate against the dark upholstery.

I force my gaze away from those hands — hands that once crafted art through movement on stages across the country. Hands that now tremble slightly, whether from concern or something else, I can't be sure.

"Not broken," I answer, my voice coming out rougher than intended. I clear my throat and try again. "Just missing some oil. Easy fix." I turn the key, and the sedan purrs to life with minimal complaint. "These older models tend to burn through oil faster than they should."

She relaxes visibly, shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as she settles back against the seat.

"Oh. That's good."

The dashboard lights illuminate her profile — the straight nose, the high cheekbones, the curve of her lower lip. I grip the steering wheel tightly and pull out of the parking lot, focusing intently on the road ahead.

"This car feels different from the one I drove to reach the ranch for my interview," she observes after a moment, her voice thoughtful. "That one was smaller, I think."

I nod, grateful for the mundane topic.

"This is the company sedan. The one you had is similar to my personal car." I pause, then add, "A Miata. Not very practical for Willowbend winters, but it handles the curves on the mountain roads beautifully."

"Like a dancer," she says softly, then immediately looks away, as if startled by her own comparison.

The silence that follows feels weighted.

I should say something—acknowledge her past without making her uncomfortable. But my mind is too occupied with her presence beside me, with the subtle shift of her weight as she adjusts her position, with the way her scent has intensified in the confined space of the car.

"You should have something more reliable," I say finally, the words coming unbidden. "For winter. And for getting around town. Cypress should be able to hook you up with something better.”

The idea of her driving something unreliable or even getting stuck midway to work bothers him tremendously. He’d definitely be looking into other options since Marigold isn’t just a random individual.

She’s one of his…

His workers.

Who needs reliable transportation?

It’s almost amusing how I’m doing everything to convince myself of the obvious truth.

"I've been looking at used cars online," she replies, fingers idly tracing the seam of her purse. "There's a dealership in the next town over that has a few options in my price range."

I nod, making a mental note to call Javier at that dealership tomorrow.

He owes me a favor, and I want to make sure Marigold isn't taken advantage of. I’d still want her to have her independence in going in and picking what she desires and could be in her range in the finances department, but I wouldn’t let the typical salesmen try to take advantage.

"Let me know if you'd like a second opinion. Cars are..." I pause, searching for words that won't sound condescending. "They can be complicated."

"Thank you." Her voice is soft, genuine. "I appreciate that."

We drive in silence for a while, the headlights carving a path through the darkness.

The road winds gently through the countryside, fields stretching out on either side, occasionally interrupted by clusters of trees or isolated farmhouses.

It's a route I've driven countless times, but tonight it feels different — charged with an electric current that flows between the driver's seat and the passenger's side.

From the corner of my eye, I notice her fidgeting.

Her fingers drum a silent rhythm against her thigh, then move to smooth nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. She crosses her legs, then uncrosses them.

Shifts her weight from one hip to the other. Each movement sends a fresh wave of her scent through the car — that intoxicating blend of vanilla and something uniquely her, underscored by a subtle note that makes my instincts sharpen to razor focus.

I crack my window slightly, desperate for fresh air, for any dilution of the effect she's having on me.

"Are you cold?" she asks immediately, concerned.

"No." The word comes out clipped. Too harsh. I soften my tone. "No, just needed some air. The car gets stuffy."

She nods and turns her face toward her own window, but not before I catch the flush spreading across her cheeks. It's not embarrassment — I've seen that on her before, a delicate pink that rises from her throat.

This is different. Deeper. More primal.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles whiten.

That flush, combined with her restlessness and the subtle change in her scent...I've been around enough unmated omegas to recognize the early signs.

Not full Heat — not yet — but the precursor. The body is preparing itself. Sometimes it happens when an omega encounters compatible chemistry, especially after a period of suppression or isolation.

Concern floods through me, temporarily overwhelming desire.

If she's entering pre-Heat, she needs to be somewhere safe. Not in a car with an unmated man whose body is already responding to her on the most basic level. Not in a small town where gossip travels faster than light.

Not when she's still finding her footing after everything she's been through.

I should say something.

Warn her.

But how do I broach that subject without sounding presumptuous? Without making her uncomfortable?

Without revealing how acutely aware I am of her biology?

She shifts again in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest as if suddenly self-conscious. Her head tilts slightly, exposing the elegant line of her neck where her pulse visibly flutters beneath the skin.

The sight sends a jolt through me, a primal response to an unconscious invitation.

The urge to leave a hickey along her flesh…to mark her like she’s destined to be mine.

Shit.

I force my eyes back to the road, hands gripping the wheel so hard I fear it might crack beneath my fingers. My body throbs in response to her proximity, to the signals she's unknowingly broadcasting.

"The heater in this car is temperamental," I say, desperate to fill the silence with something — anything —normal. "Let me know if you're too warm or cold."

"I'm fine," she replies, but her voice has a breathless quality that belies her words. She clears her throat. "Though it is a little warm."

I adjust the temperature control, turning it down a notch. My fingers brush against the vent, checking the airflow.

"Better?"

She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture is innocent, every day, but in my heightened state, it's unbearably intimate, revealing the delicate shell of her ear, the soft skin beneath.

The road stretches before us, empty and dark.

We're at least fifteen minutes fro the ranch, and I could probably sneak in a cold shower to calm my sanity from losing it.

Fifteen minutes in this confined space with her scent growing more enticing by the second, with every small movement sending fresh signals to my already alert senses.

I roll my window down further, desperate for clarity.

The cool night air rushes in, tousling her hair. A few strands come loose, dancing across her face. She reaches up to brush them away, and I catch the slight tremor in her fingers.

"Sorry," I mutter, rolling the window back up partway. "The road gets rough here. Better to have a clear view."

Another lie.

The road is perfectly smooth. But I need excuses, reasons for my erratic behavior that don't reveal the truth — that sitting beside her is the sweetest torture I've ever experienced.

She gazes out at the darkened landscape, her profile limned with silver from the occasional passing headlight. The silence between us has transformed, thick with unspoken awareness. I wonder if she can sense my state as clearly as I can sense hers.

If she knows that beneath my calm exterior, I'm fighting a battle against instincts that grow stronger with each passing mile.

The car feels like it's shrinking around us, the distance between our bodies decreasing though neither of us has moved. I can hear the soft sound of her breathing, slightly faster than normal. Can sense the heat radiating from her skin.

Can almost taste the tension in the air.

I turn on the radio, desperate for distraction.

Soft music fills the car — some contemporary melody I don't recognize. But instead of providing relief, it somehow makes the atmosphere more intimate, as if we're sharing something private.

She begins to hum along quietly, almost unconsciously.

The sound vibrates through me like a physical touch. I swallow hard and focus on the road ahead, on the yellow lines disappearing beneath the car, on anything but the woman beside me and what her presence is doing to my carefully constructed control.

Minutes stretch like hours.

Each breath feels significant, each shift of weight monumental. The rhythm of her breathing becomes the soundtrack to my thoughts, drowning out even the music from the radio.

As we approach the outskirts of the ranch, I make a decision.

Marigold's safety comes first — before my desires, before propriety, before anything else. If she's entering pre-Heat, she needs to know, and if we can prevent it, so she’s comfortable until she can figure out ‘arrangements’ even better.

She deserves the chance to prepare, to make informed decisions about her next steps.

But before I can find the right words, a new concern surfaces.

What if she's not prepared? What if she doesn't have the supplies she needs? The pharmacy would be closing soon, and the small convenience store in Willowbend hardly carries “specialized” products.

He has to restrain himself from growling at the idea of her needing to satisfy herself with some vibrating plastic.