Page 69 of Found in Wild Sage

Her face brightens. “I haven’t. I’m so hungry, and now that you say that I’m smelling it and—” She makes a sound that makes my stomach clench with longing. “Is that Naan King?”

“It is.”

“Oh my gosh. I’d marry you for this if you hadn’t already married me first.”

A strangled laugh trips out of me. “Good to know.”

The way to her heart may be through her stomach. It’s not that I haven’t noticed how much she enjoys a good meal, but I do worry that sometimes, her propensity to show gratitude is simply because she feels she owes me.

Her joke is a considerable step forward.

She washes her hands at the kitchen sink. “Need anything else from over here?”

I inspect the setup. “Maybe a few more napkins?”

I have some already, but there’s always room for reinforcements.

She’s grinning when she arrives, biting one lip and giving heart eyes to the containers of jeera rice, butter chicken, palak paneer, chicken tikka masala, and a basket of naan arranged on the squatty coffee table awaiting us.

I wave a hand for her to sit, and she plunks down, bouncing on the seat before settling and reaching for a plate.

“Seriously, this is amazing.”

“All I did was order. Mr. Khan cooked it and Jana delivered.”

She gives me an unimpressed look, which I accept with a grin.

We pile our plates with food and it’s as though we both have tunnel vision. We hardly speak until we’ve both taken our first bite. I look over and see her cheeks are bulging, they’re so stuffed with food.

She must catch my surprise, because she presses her hand to her mouth and I can see her furiously chewing. I silence the instinct to beg her to be careful after treating a patient who aspirated rice a few weeks ago. The woman knows how to chew and swallow.

Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes broadcast humor and, if I’m not misreading, delight.

She is so completely beautiful to me in this moment with her cheeks crammed full of food and her eyes bright. Her hair is tied back away from her face so I see the slope of her neck and the T-shirt she threw on when she got home from work over the sweats she loves. She’s relaxed, and not doing the thing some people do where they try to be dainty and proper when eating. Not that she’s ever particularly been this way, but her comfort puts me at ease.

Not just that. It brings me pleasure to know she’s doing as she pleases here.

In another few seconds, she swallows and speaks. “Sorry. I don’t think I became so ravenous until I saw it all. This is a dream.”

You’re a dream.

“Did you have lunch?” I’ve tried not to smother her by being in the break room at lunch every day this week like a puppy too eager to see his new owner. But that restraint has made me bereft of the information I want—which is everything.

She tips her head side to side. “I forgot most of it in the fridge but enjoyed my apple a great deal.”

“You should let me help you with Charlie more. We can take turns doing things. Or I can pack your lunch for you. Tell me what you want and I’ll make it.”

She stops mid-bite.

“I can help.”

She finishes the food quickly. “Of course you can, but you shouldn’t have to take care of two more people at home and then go spend all day taking care of half the town at work.”

If there were ever any doubt about her soft, thoughtful heart, she has yet again let me see the proof of it.

I set down my fork and turn to her fully. We’re about two feet apart on the couch, and if I had my way, I’d close that distance. Every atom of it.

For now, I savor the connection between us. This quiet moment scented by delicious food and the simplicity of a still house holding a sleeping baby above and the two of us here. Her lovely blue eyes captive to me, I attempt to make some of what I feel clear.