Page 29 of Only Mine
“Can we get some? Papa never gets flowers for our house.”
“We’ll see,” I murmur, glancing at the stand, then back at the road.
Maybe a small bouquet wouldn’t hurt. It might be nice to add a splash of color to the monochrome kitchen.
In that split second of distraction, checking the rearview mirror to see Ivy’s hopeful face, the car ahead of me brakes abruptly. A squirrel darts across the road. My foot slams on the brake, but it’s too late. Our heavy SUV connects with the other car’s bumper with a sickening crunch of metal and plastic.
Not hard. Just ... enough. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Whoa!” Ivy gasps from the back.
“Ivy? Are you okay?” I twist around, frantic.
She looks startled, wide-eyed, but nods. “Yeah. What happened?”
“Just a little bump,” I say, my voice shaking.
Oh God. Saint’s car. His precious, insanely expensive car.
The driver of the car ahead, an older woman with tight gray curls, is already getting out, her face pinched with irritation.
I take a deep breath and unbuckle my seat belt. “Stay right here, okay? Don’t move.”
I get out, legs trembling. The damage isn’t catastrophic, but it’s definitely noticeable. The front bumper has a deep scratch and a small dent. Her rear bumper is similarly scraped, with maybe a cracked taillight.
“Look what you did!” the woman accuses, hands on her hips.
“I am so sorry,” I stammer. “You stopped so suddenly...”
“A squirrel ran out! You should pay attention!”
“I know, I’m sorry. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, but my car isn’t!”
We exchange insurance information in an agonizinglyslow process. The woman eyes the Range Rover, then me, her gaze lingering on my pink streak and bandaged arms. I can feel her judgment like a physical weight. By the time we’re done, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely sign my name on the information slip she demands.
Back in the car, I grip the steering wheel, trying to calm my racing heart.
“Is the car broken?” Ivy asks quietly from the back.
“No, sweetie. Just a little dent. Everyone is okay. That’s what matters.”
But my stomach churns. What will Saint say? He’ll kill me. He’ll fire me. He’ll throw me out of the guesthouse.
At that exact time, my phone decides to buzz, and of course it’s a text from Saint.
The governor’s running behind, which means I am, too. Won’t be home until late. Maybe 2 a.m. Make sure Ivy eats.
Relief washes over me, quickly followed by renewed dread. It buys me time, but the reckoning is only delayed.
“Okay,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice. “Change of plans. How about we go home, make an awesome dinner, and then we talk about flowers tomorrow?”
Ivy, sensing the shift in my mood, just nods solemnly.
Does she know? Does she sense the tidal wave of panic crashing inside me? Of course she does. Kids always know.
Pulling into Saint’s long driveway feels like entering the lion’s den. I park the Range Rover carefully, positioning it so the damaged front end isn’t immediately visible from the main house entrance. A pathetic attempt at concealment, I know. He’ll see it the second he walks outside.
