Page 53 of Found in Wild Sage

I get him settled in his highchair and offer him some halved blueberries and sliced strawberries. He loves nice thick oatmeal, so I make that, plus a scrambled egg. We also have ingredients for pancakes, if he’d like those, or yogurt. But so far, he seems delighted by what I’m offering and keeps making yummy sounds.

“How’s he eating?”

Evie reenters the kitchen with a bit more color in her cheeks. I can tell she’s still worn down, but she’s also still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Exponentially so when she’s standing here in my kitchen in her casual clothes and slippers like she belongs here.

She does.

They both do.

“He gobbled up an egg, most of the fruit I gave him, and he’s onto the oatmeal. So far, so good.” I can’t help the small smile that lifts my cheeks.

She answers this news with a lovely, heart-flipping grin and bends so she’s at eye level with Charlie. “Are you feeling better, Charlie-bear?”

I linger a few more minutes, scrambling some more eggs and toasting an English muffin for her. When I set the food in front of her, she’s genuinely taken aback.

“You didn’t have to make me breakfast.”

It’s almost accusatory, like I’ve done something wrong by doubling the number of eggs and adding a sliced, store-bought bread item.

“I’m happy to.”

At some point, she’s going to have to realize that I mean this. I’m happy she’s here. Happy she’s sleeping in my bed, using my space. Elated her son is sleeping in my guest room, and hopefully will try out the swing set out back if he’s truly feeling better.

This reminds me. “Do you mind if I run up and get my things out of your shower?”

“It’s your shower, Declan.”

We lock eyes, our gazes meeting for almost the first time since she walked in this morning.

“Do you mind?” I ask, making clear I’m not going to start this argument again.

“Of course not.”

Her brow is furrowed enough I know something’s bothering her, but she’s also closed off this morning, and she won’t even look me in the eye now.

I won’t push.

For now.

“Great. Then, if you’re both okay here, I’ll go shower. I’ve got a meeting to get to in about thirty minutes.”

She thanks me profusely, reminding me yet again where I stand. I’m her friend, I think, but I’m also the man doing her a favor. I’m helping her.

I don’t want to admit that it’s killing me, but I fear it might be. It’s been all of one night, and there’s a level of agony I didn’t anticipate. I can help with Charlie, make his food, help in small ways. But I can’t hold her, comfort her, hold both of them like they’re mine.

And then she’ll thank me for doing only the most basic, decent of tasks as though she owes me. As though I’m doing it out of duty and not because I cannot stop myself from doing at least something. I am compelled by them both.

This time, I want to help. I’ve volunteered. I’ve raised my hand in tribute and avoided being used without my knowledge. But having it be always only this…

It is gutting me.

So I let myself dream a little for a momentary reprieve. It’s the repeated exposure. The practice. The way I’ll heal, too, isn’t it?

What would she do if I told her? What if I made it perfectly clear that I don’t want any more thanks, I only want her?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Declan