Page 42 of Release (Symbols of Love 3)

"How's the patient?" Harry's deep voice interrupts my daydream. The butterflies that live inside me only come to life when they hear his voice; they spread their wings. When I turn my head from the window to look at him, they take flight. I don't even know who I am anymore. I've never been so happy to see anyone. And Harry, who turns every head, who is kind and demanding and persistent, only has eyes for me.

For me.

"I'm fine. I was talking to my mother. What do you have there?" I smile and point at the small, white plastic bags dandling from his hand. The aroma wafting from them answers the question for me. My mouth waters instantly as I smell the spicy, slightly charred scent of the rice and beans dish that I told him yesterday was my favorite thing to eat while I was in Ghana.

"You need to eat. So I got you something I didn’t think you’d be able to resist. I hope I got it right, I couldn't even remember what it was called." He drops the packages onto the table and turns toward me smiling.

"Oh, I can't wait." I practically leer at the food. "You need to eat. That was just an appetizer." He winks and stands up.

"Harry." I say sternly.

"Emma." He responds in kind and just like that, the bubble is burst and I'm reminded of my duplicity and the impossible situation it's created.

"Fine, let's eat." I grumble.

"Let's get you out of bed, shall we?" He starts to lower the guardrail on my bed and I protest.

"I want to try and do it myself. If I can get up myself, they'll let me go home as soon as tomorrow."

He steps back to let me, but hovers over me.

I manage, even though my muscles feel like they've started to atrophy in the three days I've been lying in bed.

"I was supposed to go back yesterday, but I can't leave you in the hospital, and my travel plans are flexible." He says easily and gratitude blooms in my chest.

"Thank you. I can't remember the last time anyone changed their plans for me." I say, with more candor than I should. I want to tell him my name. I want to have an honest conversation with him and that realization creates the first real pang of regret I've felt since I met him. I've already doomed any hope that this could be more than what it is.

"Really?" He glances at me sideways, his eyes full of interest and the beginnings of longing.

My butterflies start to swirl around at his expression and I duck my head to hide my smile.

"Well, I'd stay here all week if the window to submit paperwork to the customs office was more flexible. If I want to get our first shipment out of the country in time to meet our inventory demands, I've got to make sure everything's filed on time. Otherwise, I would stay as long as you needed me."

I want to crawl into his lap and just revel in all of the comfort and attention he's offering.

"You're a surprise, Harry." I tell him, my earlier candor seemingly contagious, my conscience clearly enjoying the exercise it was getting and wanting more.

His amused eyes slide in my direction – they hit me like a jolt of raw electricity. God, he’s ridiculously charming, kind, and so fucking sexy. He shoots me a lopsided grin, "You're a puzzle, Emma. One I want so badly to solve." And then his smile falls a little, and my heart constricts.

"Harry..." I say, warning him. Reminding him of our bargain.

"I know. But you are,” He says defiantly without apology.

"Okay, let's eat. I'm actually hungry and that waakye smells unbelievable"

"Oh, that's what it's called. Watch- ey" he pronounces it slowly, each syllable drawn out, but correct.

"Yes, get ready for a mind-blowing experience."

"Queen of the hyperbole." He rolls his eyes and strolls to my bathroom to wash his hands.

I don't bother to wait for him. I'm nervous about eating and how my body will handle it. But as soon as I smell it, I know I’m going to be fine. The rice is cooked with black eyed beans and red sorghum leaves to give it a dark red, almost purple color. It’s served with a spicy sauce made of dried shrimp, hot peppers, and onions all fried together and then stewed for hours. It's something my mother made regularly growing up, but like the plantain we ate the other night, something about the way it's cooked by the roadside chefs is inimitable.

I shovel the delicious food into my mouth, groaning when the flavors hit my palette.

"God,” he chuckles.

I glance at him, arch my eyebrow and says through a mouth full of food “what?”

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