Page 47 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

MENDING THE FENCE

~MARIGOLD~

T he morning sun was already climbing toward its zenith when Marigold made her way to the north pasture where Meadow had mentioned needing help with fence repairs.

She'd spent the early hours doing laundry, finally tackling the pile of clothes that had been accumulating since her arrival in Willowbend.

The washing machine in the cottage was small but efficient, and she'd hung everything on the line outside to dry in the fresh country air—a simple pleasure that still felt novel after years of sending everything to expensive city dry cleaners.

The problem was that she'd put nearly all her usual work clothes in the wash, leaving her with limited options for a day of manual labor.

After digging through her remaining clean items, she'd settled on a pair of denim shorts she'd packed on impulse and a simple white tank top—clothes she normally reserved for sleeping or lounging around the cottage on rest days.

Standing in front of the mirror, she'd felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of skin showing.

The shorts hit mid-thigh, revealing legs toned from years of ballet that she'd grown accustomed to hiding beneath practical work pants.

The tank top was fitted but not tight, following the lines of her body without being provocative, yet something about the combination made her feel vulnerable in a way her usual modest attire never did.

"You're being ridiculous," she'd told her reflection. "It's just Meadow. He's seen you covered in dirt and horse sweat. A little extra skin won't kill anyone."

But as she approached the section of fence where she could see his familiar figure bent over his work, she found herself second-guessing the decision. The clothes felt foreign on her body, like a costume for a role she wasn't sure she knew how to play.

Meadow looked up at the sound of her approach, and she watched his expression shift from casual greeting to something more intense as he took in her appearance.

His eyes traveled slowly from her face down to her legs and back up again, the assessment thorough enough to make heat crawl up her neck despite the morning coolness.

"What's the change in attire?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of something that made her stomach flutter with nervous energy.

Marigold groaned, her hands moving instinctively to tug at the hem of her shorts as if she could somehow make them longer through willpower alone.

"I'm trying to look more... appealing maybe?

" The words came out awkward and uncertain, not at all what she'd intended to say.

"Actually, no, that's not right. I'm doing laundry and this is what I had in my emergency stash. "

She gestured helplessly at her outfit, feeling heat flood her cheeks. "It probably looks horrible. I know it's not appropriate for ranch work, but everything else is hanging on the line and?—"

Her rambling explanation was cut short when Meadow moved closer, his approach deliberate and purposeful in a way that made her breath catch.

Without warning, he reached up to brush a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail, his fingers gentle as they tucked it behind her ear.

But instead of pulling his hand away, he let his fingertips trail down the side of her neck, following the column of her throat to the hollow at its base before continuing down to where the tank top revealed the upper curve of her chest.

"You look really good like this," he said quietly, his voice pitched low and rough in a way that sent shivers racing through her nervous system. The simple words carried weight beyond their literal meaning, appreciation and desire wrapped in careful control.

The touch was feather-light but electric, awakening every nerve ending along the path his finger traced.

Marigold found herself frozen in place, caught between the desire to lean into the contact and the urge to step back from the intensity of her own response.

Her skin felt hypersensitive where he'd touched her, as if he'd marked her with invisible fire.

Their eyes met and held, the space between them charged with the same tension that had been building during their ride through the flower fields.

She could see the careful restraint in his expression, the way he was holding himself back despite the obvious effect her appearance was having on him.

The knowledge that she could affect him so strongly with something as simple as changing clothes sent a thrill of power through her that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

The moment stretched between them, heavy with possibility and unspoken want.

Marigold felt her lips part slightly, her breathing growing shallow as she became acutely aware of how close they were standing, of the way the morning light caught in his dark hair, of the subtle scent of his skin that made her want to lean closer and breathe him in.

The spell was broken by the harsh ring of Meadow's phone, the sound jarring in the quiet morning air. He stepped back reluctantly, his hand falling away from her skin as he fumbled for the device clipped to his belt.

"Meadow Calloway," he answered, his voice slightly strained as he turned partially away from her to take the call.

Marigold used the interruption to collect herself, pressing her palms to her heated cheeks and trying to slow her racing heart.

The brief contact had left her feeling off-balance, hyperaware of her own body in ways that the modest clothes she usually wore had helped her avoid.

There was something liberating about the way Meadow looked at her in this outfit, as if he was seeing aspects of her that had been hidden before.

When he finished the call—something about a delivery that would be delayed until the afternoon—he turned back to her with an expression that was carefully neutral, though she could still see the heat lingering in his eyes.

"Ready to get to work?" he asked, gesturing toward the section of fence that clearly needed attention.

"Absolutely," she replied, grateful for the chance to focus on something concrete and achievable rather than the complex emotions swirling between them.

The fence repair work proved to be exactly what she needed—physical labor that required concentration and cooperation, grounding her in the present moment while allowing the tension to dissipate into something more manageable.

Meadow showed her how to properly tension wire, how to secure posts that had worked loose over the winter, how to identify weak spots that needed reinforcement before they became major problems.

Working alongside him felt natural in a way that continued to surprise her.

They fell into an easy rhythm, sharing tools and responsibilities without need for extensive communication, each anticipating what the other needed almost before they needed it.

When he held a post steady, she was already reaching for the hammer.

When she struggled with a particularly stubborn piece of wire, he was there with steady hands to help without making her feel incompetent.

The physical nature of the work meant they were often in close proximity—reaching across each other for tools, steadying sections of fence while the other worked, moving around each other in the confined space between posts.

Each brief contact sent sparks through her system, making her hyperaware of the heat radiating from his body, the play of muscles under his shirt as he worked, the way sweat gathered at his temples despite the relatively cool morning.

"You're getting good at this," he commented as she successfully tightened a section of wire that had been giving her trouble. "Natural instinct for the work."

The praise made her glow with satisfaction, not just because she was mastering a new skill, but because it came from someone whose opinion she'd come to value deeply.

Unlike the empty compliments she'd received for her ballet performances—words that felt calculated to maintain relationships rather than express genuine appreciation—Meadow's approval felt earned and honest.

"I like working with my hands," she admitted, flexing her fingers and noting the calluses that were beginning to form from weeks of ranch work.

"It's satisfying in a way I never expected.

Seeing immediate results from your effort, fixing something that was broken and making it stronger than before. "

"That's exactly what it is," he agreed, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who'd found his calling. "There's honesty in this kind of work. You can't fake your way through it or charm it into being different than it is. Either the fence holds or it doesn't."

As the morning progressed and the sun climbed higher, Marigold became increasingly aware of the heat building both in the air around them and in her own body.

The physical exertion combined with the abbreviated clothing meant she was acutely conscious of every drop of sweat that traced paths down her skin, every breath that raised and lowered her chest, every movement that stretched fabric across her body.

More than once, she caught Meadow's gaze lingering on her exposed legs or the way her tank top clung to her torso when she stretched to reach high sections of fence.

The attention wasn't leering or uncomfortable—it was appreciative and warm, making her feel beautiful rather than objectified.

Still, the awareness of being watched so intently made her body hum with energy that had little to do with the work they were doing.

"Getting hot out here," Meadow observed as they paused to drink water from the thermos he'd brought along.

"Definitely," she agreed, accepting the cup he offered and trying not to think about how the innocent words seemed loaded with double meaning.