Page 67 of Free

She’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

I never thought pushing a cart down the grocery aisle could feel this intimate. But here we are, leaning over my phone, scrolling through recipes like it’s a secret mission. Charlie’s back presses against my chest as I hold her close, one arm draped around her waist.

“Green onions, garlic, soy sauce, sesame oil…” she reads off the ingredient list for Crispy Garlic Chicken, a meal that had both of us bobbing our heads in agreement.

“Probably need to pick up lemon juice too,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“I don’t know,” she says, tilting her head to grin up at me. “Are you sure you’re ready to handle something that zesty?”

“Careful, Wildrose,” I say, loving the way the nickname feels on my tongue. “You’re dangerously close to earning yourself a kitchen punishment.”

Her laugh is light and melodic, and she spins in my arms, pressing a quick kiss to my chin. “Let’s see who ends up with more cornstarch on their face and then talk about punishment.”

The kitchen is a disaster—cornstarch clings to everything, the counters, the floors, Sunshine’s back. And, oddly enough, in the shape of my hand on Charlie’s ass.

Wonder how that got there?

She’s giggling, flour streaked across her cheek, as we attempt to salvage the recipe.

“I think it’s safe to say this is chaos,” she says, gesturing to the countertop.

“Controlled chaos,” I correct, pinning her against the counter and brushing my thumb over her flour-dusted cheek. “We’re making memories. And chicken. Mostly chicken.”

Dinner turns out better than expected, crispy and golden with just the right amount of tang from the lemon. But it’s not the food that makes the meal.

It’s Charlie.

“You’ve been working with your family at The Hut, right?” she asks, her voice curious as she picks at the last of her meal.

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “Ever since I was well enough to sit at a desk.”

“You don’t seem thrilled.”

I hesitate, setting down my fork. “It’s not bad, just… slow. Compared to what I’m used to, it’s hard to feel like I matter.”

Charlie’s expression softens, and she reaches across the table, taking my hand in hers. Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Did it ever occur to you that it’s not what you do that makes you matter?”

I chew on the statement for a minute. It sounds a lot like the unwaveringly positive message her mom likes to spout.

“Isn’t what we do part of who we are?” I ask, careful not to scowl.

“Yes. Definitely. But I guess what I’m saying is, you mattered to me when you were out saving the world every day, and you still matter to me now that you’re sitting behind a desk. Changing your job didn’t change how I feel about you.”

I flip my hand to claim hers and bring it to my lips, gently kissing each finger. “It changed the way I feel about me. Contributing is important.”

“And what you did on the field today? That wasn’t contributing?”

“It’s—”

Charlie leans forward. “And what about the way you made Flora’s mom feel? Or the way you make me feel? Given what happened to me at my almost wedding, I should be a total wreck. I’m not. And that’s because of you. That isn’t contributing?”

I stand and pull her into my arms. “I don’t want to talk about me anymore.”

“Why? Because I’m making too good of a point?”

I nuzzle her neck. “No. Because I’m ready to move on to the naughty part of the evening.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

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