Page 4 of Only Mine
His eyes sweep over me, taking in my damp clothes, my wearied face. “From what?”
The question stuns me with its directness. Nobody’s asked me that. Not to my face. They all just assume breakdown, burnout, scandal.
“From myself,” I answer honestly. “From expectations. From a life I built that doesn’t fit anymore.”
His expression shifts from drenched outrage to mild annoyance after my confession.
“You have one night,” he finally says. “Because it’s raining, and because my daughter has apparently decided you’re staying for dinner. Tomorrow, we sort this out.”
My shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you.”
“Seven o’clock,” he says, turning to leave. “And Miss Morgan? My home is private. My daughter is private. Whatever your reasons for hiding, don’t make us part of your escape plan.”
The door closes behind him with a decisive click.
As soon as I’m sure he’s gone, I sag against the counter.
Some disappearing act this turned out to be. Less than an hour in Falcon Haven and I’ve already managed to threatenthe owner with his own kitchenware and get myself invited to the world’s most awkward dinner.
I check my watch: 6:05.
That gives me fifty-five minutes to transform from drowned rat to dinner guest.
Fifty-five minutes to prepare for a meal with a man who looks at me like I’m a problem he needs to eliminate.
Welcome to your fresh start, Wren. It’s already a disaster.
TWO
SAINT
The rain hasn’t stopped. Ivy’s wet footprints are all over the foyer when I lock the door behind us and send her upstairs with a towel and my sharpest voice.
She doesn’t flinch. She just looks at me like I missed something obvious.
“Miss Nora said she’s quitting,” Ivy announces casually as if informing me we’re out of milk.
I freeze. “What?”
“She didn’t like my unicorn mural.”
I stare at her. “What unicorn mural?”
“The one I painted on her car. With the special paints from the art cabinet.” Water drips from her pigtails as she gives me a defiant look.
Jesus Christ. Third nanny in six months that will walk, and this one will probably sue me for property damage. Just fucking wonderful.
“She’s nice, Papa,” Ivy says. Water drips from her pigtails.
“Who? Nora?”
“No, Miss Wrenley.”
“Upstairs. Now.” I point to emphasize the command, but my daughter just sighs, a sound far too world-weary for her five years.
“She needs to eat too, Daddy.” Ivy’s voice carries that stubborn note I recognize from the mirror. “And you always make too much anyway.”
I glare at the ceiling. Fucking Celeste.
