Page 186 of Wild Then Wed
“Hi, good afternoon,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m calling from room 1804. I was wondering what you’re serving for lunch?”
“Let me check on that for you…” I hear the soft clicking of a keyboard. “Okay, we’ve got a roasted turkey sandwich with cheddar, lobster bisque, mushroom risotto, and a grilled panini that comes with provolone and aioli.”
Of course. Cheese, cheese, cream, and wheat.
“Do you happen to have any gluten- and dairy-free options?” I ask, running a hand through damp hair. “My wife can’t have either.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “We don’t have anything pre-set on the lunch menu that’s fully allergen-free, but I can absolutely speak with the chef. We’ve accommodated similar dietary needs before.”
I flip open the room service menu and scan it again, mentally crossing out half the things she can’t eat until I land on some options that would work for her. “She’d probably like the cedar plank salmon. Maybe with a citrus glaze? And if the chef can add roasted beets or a fennel salad, I think she’d love that.”
“We can absolutely make that work, sir,” she says, tone still pleasant but slightly apologetic. “I should mention that with custom orders like this, there is a per-item charge. It does run a little higher—”
“That’s fine,” I cut in. “Charge whatever. Just make sure it’s safe for her to eat.”
There’s another pause, then a warmer smile behind her voice. “Of course, Dr. Hart. We’ll take care of it. It should be up in about forty-five minutes.”
“Thank you. One more thing—do you happen to carrySwoonice cream?”
“We actually do, sir. It’s very popular with our vegan guests.”
I smile to myself. “Great. Can you send up a pint of that, too?”
“Absolutely.”
“Perfect. Thanks again, Clarice.”
“You’re very welcome, Dr. Hart. Enjoy your afternoon.”
I hang up, still holding the phone, thinking about orange peels and granola bars and how she keeps doing these quiet little things for me, like walking my dog and leaving me notes.
The very least I can do is make sure she’s fed properly.
I set the phone down and look around the room. It’s not trashed, but it definitely looks lived in—last night’s clothes still in a heap near the end of the bed, pillows crooked, the duvet halfway to the floor. My shoes are tipped over by the armchair. Her duffel’s gaping open, a sweatshirt half-spilling out.
I exhale through my nose and start moving. It’s instinctual. When I was a kid and things felt too big, I’d clean. I’d line up the spurs by the door, fold my shirts into perfect squares, sweep the porch even if it didn’t need it. Something about making order where I could.
I re-make the bed first. Tuck the corners, smooth the blanket, fluff the pillows so they look like we didn’t spend the night tangled between them. I fold my clothes and then hers too,setting the neat pile on top of her bag. I find her shoes under the table and line them up next to the nightstand. Pull the used towels off the bathroom floor and drop them by the door for housekeeping.
Then I make my way over to the jacuzzi.
Her bikini top is still floating in the water—barely. The straps are all twisted and soaked. I shake it off gently, set it on a towel, and grab the bottoms that are still in the shower.
Jesus.
They’re…basically a shoestring. A suggestion of fabric. And I love them. I loved her in them. I love the idea of seeing her in them again.
I’m turning to head back toward the bed when it hits me.
My wife.
I’d said it without even thinking.“My wife can’t have either.”
No hesitation. No caveat.
And what’s worse—or maybe better—is that it didn’t feel wrong. It felt natural. Easy. Right in a way I didn’t expect anything to feel ever again.
I used to think I’d only say that word about one person. But today, I said it about Wren. And now, the more I sit with it, the more I realize I could keep saying it about her. Today. Tomorrow. Maybe for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t just be okay. It’d be good.
