Page 65 of Found in Wild Sage

The other, larger part, is evidently willing to take what he can get.

We cross the small parking lot and enter the building, literally an old farmhouse that’s been refurbished into what is almost fine dining. Certainly as close as we get in Juniper View, though there’s no fussiness about it. It’s relaxed, yet the tables are covered with white cloths and the rustic backdrop creates a genuinely pleasing setting I hope Evie will enjoy.

I’ve never been a man who cares much about a restaurant’s atmosphere. Most of the time, I prefer cooking and eating at home. But I’m oddly satisfied when I see Evie’s grin and hear her say, “Oh my gosh, it’s so perfect in here.”

I have nothing to do with the perfection of this place, but I feel proud to be the person who’s with her when she sees it. It’s a silly, completely useless thought, and yet, there it is.

We’re seated in an intimate little booth on the side in what must’ve been a horse stall at one point. Soft bright yellow cushions adorn the wooden bench seats, and the accents throughout the place are lime green and lemon yellow. It’s charming and fresh at once.

“I’m so happy I have an appetite again,” Evie says while reading the menu.

“I am, too.”

Soon enough, our waiter arrives and takes our drink order. He brings out a small amuse-bouche that’s something to do with a squash blossom, but I missed the rest of it. We inspect the tiny bite, then both eat it in one go.

Her eyes widen, then close softly. Her mouth moves as she chews, her throat works when she swallows, and all the blood rushes from my head.

During the week she’s been sick, I’ve forgotten just how stunningly beautiful she is when I allow myself to notice and not think of her as a patient, and how easily my insipid brain slips from reality into a fantasy world. It’s happening now simply watching her chew this one bite.

In the fantasy, I feel her swallow because my lips are pressed against her neck. Her hum of pleasure reverberates through me because I’ve just feasted on the moment with her, not simply in observation.

“That was delicious.” She pats the side of her smile with the corner of a cloth napkin.

“Delicious,” I parrot. Declare. Nearly moan.

Good grief, man! Get ahold of yourself!

I clear my throat and try to regain my tether on reality. “I mean yes, it was quite delicious. I have never cooked with squash blossom.”

“You like to cook though, right? When you made me dinner before the wedding, you said you were decent. I think it’s time you confess.” She raises one brow.

“What am I confessing?”

She doesn’t really want to know how many confessions have built up on my tongue in the last year, the last month, the last week, the last thirty seconds.

“That you’re an amazing chef.”

The look she’s giving me is one so full of affection and a little teasing, it flips my stomach.

“Not a chef. Maybe cook.” I shift around, not sure I know how to take this compliment. “I started cooking as a creative outlet and out of necessity since sometimes I’d leave work so late, no restaurants would be open and I got sick of cafeteria food.”

“What are your favorite things to make?”

“I’m not all that creative. I just find recipes. The Times has a good cooking section, and I really like this one blogger who I’ve heard is actually local.”

“Really? Local to Juniper View?”

“That’s the rumor. It may be just hearsay, but she’s definitely somewhere in the mountains based on her social media. Hasn’t been doing many recipes lately but lots of nature photos.”

Evie grins. “You are on social media?”

“Not much. Only for the recipes, and to see what my family posts.”

“Ah, yeah. That makes sense. I don’t post, but I do like to scroll.”

The waiter brings our plates and we both dive in. Her intense delight in the food is satisfying to me, and I’ll admit my dish is incredible.

“It’s so simple, but so, so good.”