Page 29 of Found in Wild Sage

“I agree. Maybe sometime this week? So far, your mom has quite a few things scheduled for lunch breaks. She said she was thinking a Saturday wedding. So maybe Thursday evening?”

We make the plan. She insists she can get Charlie and that I should go home. I do so reluctantly.

And I start counting the hours until she comes to my place for dinner on Thursday.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Evie

Charlie’s with the sitter and I’m walking the four blocks to Declan’s house.

This is weird on so many levels. First, I had no idea he lived so close. I mean, it makes sense, since I always see him walking to work and around town, but I’ve also never thought proximity was a requirement for him. Since I’ve known him, he’s run several half-marathon races and he’s extremely fit, so how could I know he wasn’t walking a mile before he arrived to take my bag and melt my brain with his sweetness to my baby?

Alas, here I am, nervous energy leaping through me, less like a ballerina and more like a baby deer on newborn legs. Because the second thing that feels wild about this is that it feels like a date.

It’s not. I know it’s not. But it feels like one, and it’s the closest I’ve been to a date in years. Years. In my relationship with Trevor, we didn’t go out. The occasional party with his friends, but never to a restaurant or somewhere one-on-one. And the last few months, I didn’t even miss that. I was trying to figure my way out, so being alone with him, even in public, wasn’t on my list.

I’m oddly raw as I round the corner and see a small home with numbers matching his address.

Of course.

Of course he would live in this house—a little spot I’d wanted for myself, but in the end it wasn’t for sale or rent, even if I could’ve stomached Jack paying whatever this would’ve cost.

It looks like it’s been transported from a small English town and nestled into this quiet street in Juniper View. Most of the houses around here are old and adorable, but this one has ivy climbing the stone front with a small iron gate a foot from the sidewalk and old stone walls around a tiny yard currently bursting with pollinator-friendly flowers. Deep purple blooms starburst from the vines wrapped around the gate-turned-trellis, and I pause to double-check I’m in the right place.

I am. Of course I am.

Declan Ryan is rapidly becoming deeply problematic in a way I cannot abide. First, I already liked him thanks to his stupid looks and the charming, thoughtful way he deals with patients and his unendingly persistent goodness, but now? Now he’s trying to marry me into his perfect family for my own good and he lives in a fairytale cottage and loves bees.

I mean, come on.

Why did he have to love bees?

I use this disbelief to fuel my entrance into his little wonderland, refusing to take in how flipping adorable the place is, and I march straight to his door to press the doorbell like it has personally wronged me. Or, I would, but then I see there is no doorbell. This little cottagecore dream has a door knocker, and it’s all I can do not to take out my frustration on the weathered brass.

I’m determined to find a flaw in the man that goes beyond his quiet, which isn’t actually a flaw, or his sometimes slightly awkward way when he’s not talking to patients.

Or his bossiness.

Honestly, I kind of like all of those things, which is why I can’t find fault in them.

Maybe I’ll walk into this adorable house to find he’s a total slob. Unlikely, sure, but who knows what skeletons he has in his closet? And why am I assuming that what I’ve seen is what I get with this guy? Didn’t I learn that lesson with Trevor?

Though to be fair, I’ve seen him consistently, every day, for over a year now, so it’s not like he’d be able to hide his real nature if he were secretly a horrible human being. Sam had been so nervous about Grant when they started dating, and I reassured her she wasn’t falling for a person like her ex. There was an entire town to vouch for Grant.

The same can easily be said for Declan.

And, speak of the man, he opens the door and steps back, smiling like he’s genuinely pleased I’m here.

“Welcome. Please, come in.”

He’s smiling.

A very natural, relaxed expression on his face I don’t see all that often.

At work, he’s so composed. Slacks, a dress shirt with a plain collar in a shade of white, gray, or black, or at most, a subtle checkered pattern. He styles his hair with a neat part, no evidence of gel or product, though if he uses it, it must be minimal. Then for appointments, he’ll don his white coat.

All in all, mouthwatering.