Chapter Seventeen
MARC
My gaze swept my open-concept kitchen, dining, and living room—the table set with actual cloth napkins, and a wildflower arrangement in the center.
“Did you set the table?” Mom’s voice came through the video app on my phone.
I picked up my phone and swung it around so she could see.
“Oh, Marc, the flowers are a sweet touch.”
I’d gotten them from the florist this morning. A solid five minutes passed while I debated whether to give them to Delaney directly—and then caught myself.
That was date behavior. This wasn’t a date.
I set the phone back on the stand and wiped my hands down the front of my apron, a nervous habit I hadn’t had since my residency days.
“Okay, how much more time do you have until she arrives?” Mom asked.
I checked the clock. “About fifteen minutes.”
“And you’re sure she likes chicken?”
“Mom.” I stared at the chicken piccata warming in the oven.”It’s a little too late for that now.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m excited for you.”
“This isn’t a date,” I reminded her.
“Not yet it’s not.” She winked.
I thought back to this morning’s texts, the ones that had made me feel simultaneously more confident and completely out of my depth.
MARC: Do you have any food allergies?
DELANEY: No. Why?
MARC: I require accurate information before cooking for someone.
DELANEY: Is this a date or a medical intake form? (wink)
MARC: I guess that depends on you.
DELANEY: Did Marc Kinglsey just joke with me?
MARC: Do you prefer chicken or beef?
DELANEY: Chicken.
MARC: Favorite vegetables?
DELANEY: Is this a trick question?
MARC: No, Hart it’s not.
DELANEY: Asparagus, then.
MARC: Really?
DELANEY: Are you giving me shade for my vegetable choices, Kingsley?
MARC: I’m just surprised. It’s my favorite too.
DELANEY: Glad to hear my choice is acceptable.
MARC: Wine okay?
DELANEY: Are you trying to get me drunk?
I froze. Stared at my screen long enough that my phone locked itself.
DELANEY: Breathe, Kingsley. I’m kidding. I’d never think that about you. Can I bring anything?
MARC: I’m good.
I’d exhaled so hard I fogged up my glasses.
“How’s the risotto?” Mom peered closer to the screen, trying to see around me to the stove.
I checked the pan.
“Taste it and tell me if it’s al dente. It should be a similar texture to perfectly cooked pasta.”
I dipped in a spoon and scooped up enough for a small bite. “It is.”
“Perfect. Turn off the heat. Get your parmesan ready and fried capers to add on top.”
Dad pushed his face in next to Mom’s. “Is this the girl from the animal yoga thing?”
“Dad.” He had an impeccable memory and no sense of timing.
“The one you like, right?”
My head snapped up. “I never said that.”
“Now, Robert, stop it. Marc, ignore him. Get the salad out and—”
The doorbell rang and my chest tightened.
“Is that her?” Mom’s attempt at discretion lasted approximately zero seconds.
“Yes, which means I have to go.” I tugged at a loose string on the apron.
“Have fun, sweetheart. And just see where things go. I’ve always liked Delaney, and if you two—”
“Love you. Night.” I hung up before she could finish that sentence.
I drew in a slow breath. Rolled my shoulders back. Thought about the eighty-five-pound Labrador who’d tried to take my hand off during a nail trim last Tuesday without so much as rattling me.
I headed through the open space into the small entryway and then opened the door.
My brain executed a full system shutdown. She was breathtaking.
Delaney was wearing faded, form-fitting jeans that skimmed her thick curves in a way that made it genuinely difficult to maintain eye contact and a burgundy sweater that hung loose off one shoulder.
That one bare shoulder undid me a little—the freckles scattered along the curve of it, the ones I’d noticed a long time ago and had been steadfastly ignoring ever since.
The desire to press my lips there to trace each one surfaced before I could stop it.
Her eyes crinkled at the corner as she smiled at me.
I’d known Delaney Hart for the better part of twenty years.
I’d watched her grow from the sharp-tongued girl who argued with me about everything into the sharp-tongued woman who still argued with me.
But standing there on my porch, smiling in a way that suggested she was actually glad to be here—that did something to me I wasn’t prepared for.
“You look …” I could barely form words.
“Presentable, I hope.” She tilted her head. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”
I wanted to say a dozen things. None of them were appropriate. “You look beautiful,” I said instead, stepping back to let her in. “Thank you for coming tonight, Delaney.”
Her cheeks flushed. She glanced away, just for a beat, as though she needed a second to collect herself. That oddly steadied me.
“I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages,” she said, crossing the threshold and looking around with wide eyes. “So maybe I’m getting the better end of this deal.”
She stepped farther into the entryway, and her gaze dropped to my chest. A slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her hand stretched out, a single finger ran down the center of my chest, her eyes sparkled with humor. “I wouldn’t have thought you owned an apron, but you’re making it work.”
I glanced down. I’d forgotten to take the damn thing off.
I pulled it over my head in one motion and she laughed—a real one, the kind that took over her whole face.
“It’s no tux,” she said, her eyes trailing down over my Henley, focusing on my rolled up sleeves. There was a fraction of a pause where her gaze caught on my forearms before she dragged it back up to mine. “But this’ll do.”
There was heat in her eyes when they met mine. Not anything over-the-top—it was quieter than that, and when she seemed to recognize her reaction, she immediately tried to temper it.
“You have a lovely home,” she said.
“Thank you. It took a while to renovate it to my specifications. But I love it now.”
In the kitchen, I reached for the bottle of white wine. The familiar ritual of uncorking a bottle gave me something to do with my hands, which was useful because my hands were very interested in finding other things to do.
“As much as I enjoy watching you serve me,” she said, the words carrying the edge of a tease. “I can help, too.”
I went still for a half-second. The phrase serve me didn’t mean anything. She was being funny. She was always being funny. Yet I couldn’t stop the thoughts of me “serving” her pleasure until her legs shook and she screamed my name.
Fuck.
I made myself keep moving, gesturing to the two small salad bowls on the counter.
“Can you put that on the table and grab whatever salad dressing you’d like from the fridge? I’ll eat whatever you choose.”
“That’s either very trusting or very dangerous,” she said, already opening the refrigerator.
“I prefer to think of it as flexible.”
She made a small sound that was either a snort or a laugh and held up a bottle of vinaigrette, seeking my approval. I nodded.
We ferried everything to the table together, and when we sat, there was a brief moment of quiet—the particular quiet of two people who know each other well enough to feel the strangeness of this particular situation.
I took a bite of the risotto. Then her fork moved, and the silence stretched one beat too long, so I said the first thing that surfaced. “I’m glad you were the one who won me.”
Her eyes slowly came up to meet mine. “I, uh …” A flicker across her face—surprise, first and beneath it, something warmer and a little uncertain. As though she hadn’t quite decided what to do with it yet.
“I shouldn’t have said—”
“I am too,” she said quietly. She smiled tentatively, feeling her way through whether she meant it or not. Then, as if she decided she did mean what she said: “I am.”
I exhaled.
The conversation that followed came easier than I expected.
She wrinkled her nose when she admitted she’d never learned to cook properly—her parents hadn’t encouraged it—but her face went soft when she talked about her aunt’s kitchen, and the two of them making something from scratch, flour on every surface.
“Your aunt was the first to welcome me when I opened my practice,” I told her.
Delaney grinned. “Let me guess. She brought you crystals, didn’t she?”
“Citrine and rose quartz.”
“Of course.” She pointed her fork at me. “Citrine for the prosperity of the business. Rose quartz …” She paused. “For connection, maybe. She’d want the animals to trust you and stay calm.”
I studied her across the table. There was a particular comfort in watching Delaney think. The way her eyes went a little distant, the small movement of her fingers when she was working something out.
I took a chance. “Can I ask you a question without offending you?”
She grinned. “Spit it out, Kingsley."
“I have a hard time believing the crystals do anything. Scientifically. Why do you believe it?”
She took a bite of the risotto and made a low sound in her throat—a soft, satisfied sound that had absolutely nothing to do with me and still managed to tighten every muscle in my body.
“Not everyone believes in what I do,” she said, either unaware of what she’d just done to my composure or merciful enough to ignore it.
“And I know for someone who lives in the measurable world, it’s harder. ”
“I’m not dismissing it. I’m asking.” And that was a big step forward for me.
The muscles that had just tensed in her face and shoulders eased—like she’d been braced for a fight and found, instead, genuine curiosity.
She leaned forward slightly. “It’s about intention.
We use it to ease a worry, to invite abundance, to calm our body.
But it’s not just the crystal doing all the work—the person also needs to make moves toward the outcome before they can expect things to change.
The crystal is the anchor for that belief. ”
“That sounds like what a skeptic would call a placebo effect,” I observed.