Page 23 of Only Mine
Ivy does a complete U-turn without breaking her stride, then flings her arms around my waist in a surprise hug that knocks the air from my lungs. “Bye, Miss Wrenley!”
She doesn’t let go, clinging to my waist a moment longer than necessary.
“I’ll be here at pickup time,” I assure her, squeezing her shoulders, and her hold loosens. “Front of the line, two thirty sharp.”
Her face brightens as she spins and skips away to join the other kindergartners. Miss Erin lingers.
I pull out my phone. “I should let Saint know Ivy’s settled.”
“No need,” Erin says. “I’ll let him know everything went smoothly. Saint appreciates thorough updates. I know what he likes to read.”
I frown at her back as she saunters away but manage to tap out a quick message before she can sink her claws into Saint.
Ivy dropped off. Mermaid braid was a hit. No apocalypse occurred.
I return to the driver’s seat and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, taking some deep breaths before I drive off. I’d prepared myself for a change of routine when coming to Falcon Haven, but this morning’s activitieshave skewed my predictions of what to expect so much that they’re not even on the scale anymore.
Don’t scratch. Don’t pull. Just breathe.
Ivy’s teacher clearly has a thing for Saint. Her territorial vibe was unmistakable, like a cat marking its territory with strategically placed urine. I don’t blame her, though. Saint is insanely attractive in that brooding, tattooed chef way that makes women swoon.
And he’s rich.
And he’s a devoted father.
And he’s tortured.
Andhe’s my temporary boss.
Who thinks I’m a squatter on his property.
Shit. Seven more hours to go, and I’m already in way too deep.
FIVE
WRENLEY
The GPS on my phone announces that I’ve arrived at Falcon Haven’s Main Street, though I could have figured that out myself from the sudden shift from winding country roads to a charming strip of weathered storefronts that look like they belong on a postcard. I ease Saint’s car into a parking spot on the street, taking my time to check (and double-check) that I’m within the painted lines.
The last thing I need is to give Mr. Perfectionist another reason to scowl at me.
I don’t feel comfortable just lounging in Saint’s house, his guesthouse, or his property in general, so what better way to idle away the hours I have while Ivy is in school than to enjoy the quaint small town that I’ll soon be leaving?
Falcon Haven has the storybook quality that social media filters strive to replicate, but fail to achieve. I walk by window boxes stubbornly clinging to the last of summer’s flowers, a hardware store that probably sells fishing tackle alongside hammers, and a market called The Merc with wooden crates of apples displayed outside.
A silver-haired man sweeping outside his bookshop pauses, nods at me, then returns to his task. A woman walking her corgi smiles without slowing her pace. They see me, a newcomer in their town, but they don’t stare. Don’t approach. Don’t pull out phones for sneaky photos.
My shoulders drop an inch, and my breathing eases.
I slow my pace without thinking when a blue-and-white-striped awning comes into view.C’est Troisis written above in fancy cursive lettering.
Saint’s restaurant.
Though “restaurant” seems too ordinary a word compared to the chef behind it all.
I take five steps closer to the window, drawn by an invisible hand at the small of my back urging me forward. Through the spotless glass, I’m able to glimpse the inner workings of Saint’s kingdom, with an open kitchen gleaming with copper and steel, and a line of white-coated staff moving around with stiff-backed confidence.
And there he is.
