Page 24 of Only Mine
Saint stands out among his team, even though he’s in white like the others. His broad shoulders are squared, his neck tattoos standing out against the crisp chef’s coat as he bends over something on the counter.
His fingers move with surprising delicacy for such large hands, arranging what looks like paper-thin slices of ... something. His sheer focus radiates outward, creating a bubble of tense concentration that even I can feel through the glass.
He straightens, says something to a young man beside him who nods rapidly, then turns?—
Our eyes lock.
My heart slams against my ribs. His expression shifts from concentration to recognition to something darker.
Panic floods my system. I drop to a crouch behind a rowof manicured boxwoods, the rough branches scratching my arms as I press myself against the bricks holding the plants.
“Smooth, Wrenley,” I mutter to myself.
I press my forehead against my knees, my cheeks burning as I race through the possibilities of what’s happening inside his head right now.
Maybe he thinks I’m spying on him. Perhaps he thinks I’m unstable. Maybe he thinks I’m exactly the kind of person who shouldn’t be trusted with his daughter.
But I can tell you what he’snotthinking. He’s probably not thinking about how absolutely captivating he is while in his element, full of authority and confidence, yet careful and delicate in his handling of his creations.
I peek through the branches. The spot where Saint stood is empty, and I release a breath.
Maybe he didn’t actually see me. Perhaps that look wasn’t recognition, but just his normal resting scowl face. Maybe?—
“Looking for something?”
I topple backward.
The deep voice above me sends me sprawling into the bushes. I tilt my head up to find Saint looming over me, one dark eyebrow raised, arms crossed over his chest. His chef’s coat is unbuttoned at the top, revealing the edge of a tattoo that disappears beneath the fabric.
“I was just—” My voice cracks. “I dropped my ... um...”
“Your dignity?”
His mouth twitches at the corner.
I stand, brushing dirt from my knees, acutely aware of tiny scratches stinging my forearms and the relentless burn in my cheeks.
“I panicked. I didn’t expect to see you, and then you looked at me, and I just ... reacted.”
“By hiding.”
“It’s what I do when I’m caught off guard.”
Saint stares at me for a beat too long, then shakes his head. “Stay out of trouble, Miss Morgan.”
He turns to leave, his dismissal so abrupt that I’m left blinking in his wake.
“That’s it?” I call after him. “No lecture about lurking? No ‘stop spying on my restaurant’?”
He stops, shoulders tensing under his chef’s coat. “I don’t have time for?—”
When he turns back, his eyes drop to my forearms. His expression shifts.
“You’re bleeding.”
“What?” I look down at the small scratches left by the boxwood branches. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a few scrapes.”
He steps closer, taking my wrist in his hand. His touch is cool against my skin, professional rather than intimate, but my pulse jumps anyway. His fingers are callused, the hands of a chef who has known knives and fire.
