Page 14 of Only Mine
“Papa!” Ivy jumps up, oblivious to his fury. “Look what Miss Wrenley and I made! She understands about unicorn butts!”
“Jesus Christ,” Saint mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. “Do you have any idea—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched so tight that all of his cheek muscles ripple. “You can’t just disappear like that.”
“I wasn’t gone,” Ivy protests. “I was right here.”
“You weren’t in your room when I checked. You weren’t in the kitchen. You weren’t—” He stops, seeming to realize I’m witnessing his parental meltdown.
“We’re just painting rocks,” I say, squaring my shouldersdespite the fact that I’m sitting on damp grass in a borrowed robe with paint-covered fingers. “She’s been perfectly safe.”
“I woke up and she was gone. Completely gone.” His voice drops to a dangerous rumble. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
The raw fear beneath his anger is unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” I say, softening my tone. “She was already out here when I found her. I should’ve brought her back to the house.”
Saint stares at me, and for a moment, I glimpse the sheer terror that comes with parenthood. The kind that turns rational people into frantic searchers of empty rooms.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“No, I’m—” Saint stops himself, swallows hard. “I just woke up to her empty bed and...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t need to.
Ivy, oblivious to the adult undercurrents, tugs on her father’s hand. “Papa, Miss Wrenley said my art doesn’t have to stay on paper. She gets it.”
Saint’s eyes meet mine again, shining a gorgeous blue in the morning light. I have to stop myself from audibly gulping.
“Can she have breakfast with us?” Ivy asks. “Please? She likes my mermaids.”
Saint hesitates, and I jump in to spare him. “Actually, I should probably?—”
“Yes,” he says, surprising me. “If Miss Morgan wants.”
“Wrenley,” I correct automatically. “Just Wrenley is fine.”
“Wrenley, then.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the fact that I’m not wearing pants.
I should say no. I should retreat to the guesthouse, packmy bags, and drive away from whatever this complicated situation is. Instead, I hear myself say, “I’d like that.”
Ivy beams triumphantly and scampers toward the house, leaving colorful footprints in her wake.
When she’s out of earshot, Saint runs a hand through his hair, studying me sidelong. “Usually her nanny is here at this time and I’m at the restaurant, but…”
“She quit,” I say, standing and brushing grass off myself, but only managing to leave smears of paint on the robe. “Ivy told me a little bit about what happened.”
His eyes narrow in further assessment. “Do you have kids?”
“No,” I say, then bite my lip. “But I used to be a camp counselor for kindergartners.”
Half-true. I shot a series of summer camp-themed videos for five-year-olds last year. Made them little friendship bracelets on camera. Got paid a ridiculous amount by a children’s vitamin company. Close enough.
Saint glances toward the house, his expression puzzled. “Ivy doesn’t warm up to people. Ever.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with his attention being on me for so long, like he can spot every detail. “Kids like me. I don’t talk down to them.”
His shoulders slope, a barely perceptible softening around the edges. “You’re covered in paint.”
