Page 10 of Only Mine
She pulls back like I’ve burned her at the same time Irecoil, and both our wineglasses topple onto the marble counter with a piercing clang. The rest of my red spreads like a bloodstain between us.
Our hands collide again as she reaches for napkins and I grab a dish towel.
“I’ve got it.”
“Let me help?—”
“I said I’ve got it.”
She withdraws, tucking her hands in her lap. I soak up the mess, tossing the ruined towel in the sink.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
“For what? Spilling wine or taking over my guesthouse?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady despite the flush on her cheeks. “Both, I guess.”
I pour us each a fresh glass, sliding hers across the counter without making contact this time. “Drink your wine and finish your meal. I need to check on Ivy.”
She nods, picking up her glass carefully.
I leave her in the kitchen, needing distance from whatever the hell just happened between us. The brush of her fingers shouldn’t affect me. Nothing should affect me. I’ve spent three years making damn sure of it.
Upstairs, Ivy has emptied half her bookshelf onto her bed. Her room is a riot of color, the one area of the house where I let her personality run wild. Stuffed animals crowd her bed, books spill from shelves, and fairy lights twinkle along the ceiling.
“Papa! Help me pick! Should we read the one with the dragon or the one with the talking animals?”
“The dragons,” I say automatically. “Always the dragons.”
“But we read that one last night.” She holds up a bookwith a worn purple spine. “What about this one? It has a unicorn.”
“You decide,mon trésor. It’s your story time.”
She bites her lip, weighing the options with the gravity of a Supreme Court Justice. “I think ... the unicorn. Because Miss Wrenley has pink hair like a unicorn’s mane.”
“Good choice.”
“Papa?” Ivy’s voice drops to a whisper. “Do you think Miss Wrenley likes us?”
The question catches me off guard. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I like her.” She hugs the book to her chest. “And she has sad eyes like you do sometimes.”
My throat tightens. For a long time, I didn’t have to worry about Ivy noticing adult idiosyncrasies like grief and depression, but she’s growing up so fast. It seems like yesterday she was crawling onto my lap and hanging off my ears. I don’t know if I’m ready for the questions she will no doubt start asking.
“Where is Miss Wrenley?”
“Downstairs. Finishing her dinner.”
“Can she tuck me in after the story?”
I pause on my way to the stairs. “Why would she do that?”
Ivy shrugs, her small shoulders rising and falling beneath her fancy dress. “I just thought it would be nice.”
It takes all my self-control to keep the pain from affecting my expression. “Let’s just see how the story goes.”
My phone buzzes just as I reach the stairs, and it’s a text from Celeste:
