Page 31 of Found in Wild Sage

And speaking of, he’s right. Instead of a low-key no big deal courthouse appointment, we’re going to be standing in front of his family. So we need to get down to business.

“Where should we start?” I have no idea what he has in mind. “I mean, we know a lot about each other, but at the same time, I feel like I know absolutely nothing about you.”

An alarm on his phone sounds. “Give me one minute.”

He slips out a door leading to a patio I can glimpse through the window, the grill positioned at the far edge. It, like everything in here, looks inviting and well-loved but still appealing. No grunge or signs of immature bachelorhood, not that one could imagine Declan Ryan living in such a state.

The kitchen and living room are one space, with a long couch creating the living room boundary. It faces a large stone fireplace with a wood mantel, and above it, a stunning photograph of what I’m pretty sure are the Three Sisters mountains including Silver Ridge Peak.

The color palette is warm—greens, browns, natural woods, and soft whites. It’s all surprisingly stylish, though I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe a techier bachelor pad vibe? It feels like a place a family could live very comfortably.

There’s a little patch of grass out back, and I even see a swing set. I bet Lily and Poppy love coming to see their Uncle Declan. There’s a table outside with a pair of gardening gloves and some pruning shears sitting on one corner like maybe he set them down there right before coming inside. On the table in here, there’s a beautiful squatty bouquet of flowers I just bet he cut himself.

My heart squeezes right as he slips back inside.

“We’ll let this rest for a few minutes. Would you mind getting the salad out of the fridge?”

“Sure, of course.”

I’m relieved he’s given me a job other than snooping around his space. I haven’t gone so far as opening cabinets or the hallway closet, but if he’d given me enough time, I might’ve.

Inside the double-door fridge, I find a beautiful bowl covered with plastic wrap, and next to it a mason jar with what must be a homemade dressing. Because of course there is.

“I’m sorry I’m running late. I’d hoped to have this all done before you got there.”

He’s arranging something on a platter with his typical intensity, and I can’t fathom what he thinks is less than perfect.

“This is amazing, Declan. Aside from dinner at your parents’ house, the only time I have someone else cook for me is when I order takeout or the rare occasion I go to Jack’s and his chef makes food. I really appreciate you going to all this trouble.”

His head pops up. “It’s never trouble for you.”

Oh.

“That’s sweet. But I think when you’re marrying me, it’s okay to admit you’re going the extra mile.”

I wrap my arms around myself because I don’t know what else to do with them. I don’t know how to be around him and not just cry with gratitude while also feeling humiliated that he’s marrying me out of what has to be his do-gooder proclivities.

Very old news flash: I’m a mess.

Instead of taking a seat at the six-person table, he approaches and holds out his hand. When I dare, I look up to find his piercing blue eyes waiting patiently for me.

My arm moves without my brain consciously giving the order, which would be normal except it feels like I’m having to instruct my body on just about every basic action including breathing since he opened the door.

Our palms slide together and he grasps my hand. I am given no quarter from that gaze of his, at once gentle and intense.

“I understand why you feel this way, but I want to make clear I don’t view this as a sacrifice. I also understand you don’t believe me.”

I swallow because the man has me pegged. Not that I’ve been all that discreet about my concerns, but I’m also not used to anyone speaking so directly. My ex was a master gaslighter, and the only direct things he said were words that shaved off pieces of me, slicing into the person I was to make me into something closer to what he wanted.

I want to believe Declan. Logically, I’m pretty sure I know I can.

But you can’t simply undo the self-doubt abuse creates. Sam and I talked a lot about that, and I’ve worked on it with a therapist, too. Still, it’s not a light switch. It’s a gradual, sometimes grueling process I’m still very much in progress with.

“We’ll make our marriage vows soon enough. Tonight, I want to vow to you that I will always tell you the truth. I will not spare my own feelings, or yours.”

Now there’s a familiar thought—a man not sparing my feelings. “That sounds a little scary, honestly,” I admit.

He nods. “I agree. And to be clear, I don’t mean I’ll be harsh. I mean that there may be hard conversations ahead, and I am vowing I will be truthful, even if it costs me. I hope you’ll feel free to do the same, but I acknowledge you are dealing with a lot.”