Page 70 of Found in Wild Sage

“I’d like to help you, Evie, because I care about you and Charlie. And I suspect it’s been a long time since you let anyone take care of you. If you’ll let me, I’d like to be that person. At least for a while.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Evie

The movie plays on Dec’s big flatscreen, what I originally thought was a landscape above the fireplace. It’s another detail in this house that feels like a pleasant, curious surprise.

And me?

Oh, nothing. I’m just sitting here approximately eighteen inches from a man I’m head over slippers for. I won’t let myself think in more specific terms because it won’t do me any good. But honestly, how am I supposed to stay neutral when he says the things he does?

Or does the things he does?

Because that’s the thing about Declan. He is the most “if he wanted to, he would” kind of man a girl could dream up. Right from the moment he started meeting me on the way to work to carry my bag, he proved that.

He wants to help with the baby? He steps right in. He wants to help with the custody issue? He marries me. And I think I’m learning and working on accepting that he really only does things he wants to.

It’s just that his heart is so darn big underneath that polished, steady guise of his, he seems like he wants to do it all.

That’s why there’s a thread of doubt stitching into my consciousness and suggesting maybe I should believe him at both his word and deed.

Maybe he wanted to marry me.

Maybe he wanted to be here with me tonight on this couch eating Naan King and talking about mundane parts of life like his gardening hobby and my deep and personal love for the nerdy science teacher on Stranger Things.

Maybe he wants to be snuggled next to me while Charlie sleeps upstairs.

These thoughts chase around and around my head once freed, little jackrabbits having their day until eventually, I wear out.

When I wake, I come to with drowsy pleasure to warmth at my cheek. Eyes blinking open, I see Dec hovering over me. It’s his hand at my cheek, and that low rumble is his voice just above a whisper speaking my name.

“Evie, love. Time for bed.”

His eyes are dark at this range, and his face is so serious and handsome. It’s the late hour or the bellyful of delicious dinner, or the quiet contentment of this moment with him that has me daring to reach up and touch him.

I run my fingers gently along his hairline, brushing back the bit that arches lightly over his forehead at this angle. I continue tracing along until I reach his cheekbone, where I indulge in sliding my palm gently over the short, crisp stubble at his cheek, his jawline.

“You’re so…”

Whatever boldness I’ve had until now flees when he stiffens, inching back just enough for me to realize he’s on guard.

No longer is he the relaxed, hazy Dec I woke to. The one calling me “love” and touching my face like he has a right to.

That perfunctory distance he keeps between us is back, the closeness banished into the night completely when he sits up.

I hate it. I want the closeness back. I want…

I have no filter for my actions, a very weak grip on my feelings, and it’s past time I put myself to bed. He stands and I do, too, folding the blanket he must’ve laid over me, and looking around for my phone. He hands it to me, but holds on to it, forcing an odd connection.

“Thank you.”

It’s that delicious, rough scratch his voice turns into when he’s tired.

I’d like to hear other things in that voice.

I’d like to hear my name. I’d like to hear exclamations and groans of ecstasy and maybe even something shocking. Something showing me he’s not holding back, not tightly controlled, every action premeditated.

And clearly, it is time for me to go to bed.