Page 37 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

"Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing with the camera. "This is exactly the kind of authentic moment I'm trying to document—friends sharing food and conversation, the rituals that bind communities together."

"As long as you get my good side," Flint joked, striking an exaggerated pose that made everyone laugh.

The click of the camera shutter punctuated the next few minutes as Cypress moved through the room, capturing candid moments with the kind of unobtrusive skill that suggested years of practice.

Watching him work, Marigold was struck by how seamlessly he blended into the background, becoming nearly invisible despite his presence.

When he finally set the camera aside and joined them around the coffee table, the cake proved to be every bit as good as it looked—rich without being overwhelming, complex layers of flavor that spoke to serious skill in the kitchen.

"This is incredible," Marigold told Gus, meaning every word. "I had no idea you were such a talented baker."

"Hidden depths," he replied with a grin. "We all have them."

The comment felt weighted with meaning beyond the immediate context, a reminder that everyone carried stories and skills and experiences that weren't immediately apparent.

Looking around the room at these men—each accomplished in his own field, each carrying his own history and complexity—she was struck by the richness of the connections being formed here.

"What about you, Marigold?" Cypress asked, settling into a chair positioned where he could see everyone without being the center of attention. "What brought you to Willowbend? Last I heard, you were taking the dance world by storm."

The question she'd been dreading all evening finally arrived, delivered with genuine curiosity rather than judgment but still carrying the weight of explanation she wasn't sure she was ready to give.

The story of her flight from the city involved pain and betrayal and public humiliation—not exactly the kind of topics that made for comfortable dinner conversation.

"Things changed," she said carefully, hoping the vague response would be enough to satisfy his curiosity without requiring detailed explanation.

But Cypress had always been perceptive, and the years hadn't dulled his ability to read between the lines of what she wasn't saying. His expression shifted from casual interest to genuine concern as he processed the careful neutrality of her response.

"Changed how?" he asked gently. "I know you were engaged, planning to join that prestigious company. That was your dream."

The mention of her engagement sent a jolt through Marigold that she hoped didn't show on her face.

Of course Cypress would know about Rowan—their social circles overlapped enough in college that news of major life events would have traveled.

But hearing it spoken aloud in this context, in front of Meadow and his friends, made the failure feel fresh and raw again.

"That didn't work out," she said, her voice carefully controlled despite the emotions churning beneath the surface. "Sometimes dreams change direction."

"Or sometimes dreams get derailed by people who don't deserve to be part of them," Meadow said quietly, his voice carrying a protective edge that made warmth bloom in her chest.

The comment hung in the air, supportive without being overbearing, offering solidarity without demanding explanation. It was exactly the kind of response she needed in this moment—acknowledgment of pain without requiring her to relive it for an audience.

Cypress's eyes sharpened with the photographer's instinct for significant moments, clearly sensing undercurrents of story that went beyond simple career changes.

But instead of pressing for details, he nodded with the kind of understanding that suggested his own experience with derailed plans and redirected dreams.

"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I know how much that meant to you."

"Thank you," she replied, grateful for his restraint and his genuine sympathy. "But honestly, being here... it's been good for me. Really good. I'm learning that sometimes what feels like an ending is actually a beginning."

As she spoke the words, Marigold realized how true they were.

The pain of Rowan's rejection and Magnolia's betrayal was still there, but it had been transformed by the experiences she'd had since arriving in Willowbend.

The work at the ranch, the friendships forming with Flint and Gus, the growing connection with Meadow—all of it had contributed to a sense of rebuilding that felt more solid than anything she had before.

"I can see that," Cypress said, and there was something in his voice—a wistfulness, perhaps—that suggested he recognized the peace she'd found here. "You look... settled. Content in a way you never did in college."

The observation caught her off guard because she hadn't realized the change was visible to others.

But thinking about it, she could feel the truth of his words.

There was a calmness in her now that wasn't there before, a sense of belonging that had nothing to do with external validation and everything to do with finding her place in a community that valued authenticity over performance.

"Willowbend has a way of doing that to people," Flint observed. "Something about the pace of life here, the way people actually care about each other rather than just existing in proximity."

"It's the opposite of city life in all the best ways," Gus added. "Though I have to admit, it took me a while to adjust when I first moved here for the veterinary practice. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to reveal the dark secrets hidden behind all the surface pleasantness."

"And?" Cypress prompted with interest.

"There weren't any," Gus said with a laugh. "Or at least, not the kind I was expecting. People here have the same problems as anywhere else—financial stress, relationship drama, family conflicts. But they deal with them together instead of in isolation. It makes a difference."

The conversation drifted into lighter territory as they shared stories of their various arrivals in Willowbend, the adjustments required when moving from more urban environments to rural community life.

Marigold listened with half her attention while the other half processed the emotional revelations of the evening—the closure with Cypress, the deepening connection with Meadow, the sense of belonging she was finding with this unexpected chosen family.

As the fire burned lower and the evening grew later, Cypress began showing signs of travel fatigue, stifling yawns that reminded them all that he'd driven several hours to get here today.

The bed and breakfast where he was staying was only a few miles away, but the country roads could be tricky in the dark for someone unfamiliar with their curves and hidden driveways.

"I should probably head back," he said reluctantly, clearly reluctant to end an evening that had provided both professional inspiration and personal resolution. "Early morning tomorrow if I want to catch the sunrise shots I have planned."

"Of course," Meadow said, though Marigold caught a note of something— relief, perhaps ?—in his voice. "Thanks for coming tonight. It's been good to catch up."

"Really good," Cypress agreed, standing and gathering his camera and portfolio with practiced efficiency.

"And Marigold..." He turned to her with an expression that carried years of unspoken sentiment.

"I'm glad we had a chance to talk. To clear the air.

And I'm glad you've found a place where you can be happy. "

"Thank you," she told him, rising from her seat on the couch to see him off. "I'm glad you're pursuing your photography. You always had such a good eye—it's wonderful to see you've turned that into something professional."

They stood there for a moment, former lovers turned friendly acquaintances, the weight of their shared history balanced by the recognition that they'd both moved beyond it. There was sadness in the moment but also peace, the bittersweet satisfaction of closure achieved.

"I'll probably see you around town while I'm here," he said as they moved toward the front door. "Willowbend isn't exactly large enough for us to avoid each other."

"I'd like that," she responded, meaning it.

The prospect of occasional friendly encounters no longer felt threatening—if anything, it felt healing, a chance to demonstrate to herself that she could maintain cordial relationships with people from her past without being defined by those relationships.

As Cypress gathered his things and prepared to leave, Meadow appeared at her side with the quiet presence that was becoming familiar. His hand found the small of her back, a gesture of support and connection that felt natural despite the complexity of the evening.

"Drive safely," Meadow told Cypress, the words carrying genuine concern despite whatever complicated feelings might exist between them. "These roads can be tricky at night if you're not used to them."

"I'll take it slow," Cypress promised, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. "Thank you again for dinner. All of you. This is exactly the kind of authentic community experience I was hoping to document."

He paused at the door, hand on the handle, and turned back one last time. "Marigold, I know this was unexpected for both of us, but I'm really glad we ran into each other again. You deserve all the happiness you've found here."

And then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness beyond the porch light, leaving the rest of them standing in the doorway watching his taillights disappear down the long driveway.