Page 58 of Only Mine
“Wrenley, wait.”
Saint’s voice follows me, but it’s distant, like he’s calling from the other side of a canyon. I’m already at the door, my hand on the cool metal of the knob, a desperate need to escape writhing around inside me.
Inside, I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want to see my reflection, the inevitable tear tracks, the stupid hope that had been so clearly written on my face just minutes ago.
He’s attached. Too much. Too fast.
Liar.
Or maybe just an asshole.
I collapse onto the small sofa, my chambray shirt clinging to my damp skin. But I don’t scrape. I don’t scratch, or pull, or break skin.
My fingers hover over the screen of my phone, then I force myself to type out a message before I lose my nerve.
Hey, Brenda. I’ve been marinating.
I hit send, then drop the phone onto the cushions, a sunken feeling settling in my chest.
FOURTEEN
SAINT
My coffee burns my tongue, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that shoots through me when Wrenley stumbles into my kitchen in nothing but pajama shorts and a threadbare T-shirt that leaves too little to my imagination.
I should’ve locked the back door.
For many reasons, since Ivy is the one leading Wrenley inside.
My daughter’s hair is a rat’s nest, her feet are bare and filthy, and her small face is alight with a triumphant grin that tells me this was a premeditated mission.
“Papa!” Ivy chirps. “Miss Wrenley’s awake!”
Wrenley, who looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backward and then dressed by a confused pixie, blinks at me, her eyes wide and still clouded with sleep, the pink streak in her hair a bright slash against her pale face.
Her shirt drapes over the peaks of her nipples. My gaze snags there for a beat too long.
“I, uh,” Wrenley stammers, crossing her arms over her breasts. “Ivy was very… persuasive. At my door. Then climbing onto my bed. Very early.”
I purse my lips, containing the annoyed grumble. My daughter, the miniature escape artist, decided to bypass the stairs and make a pre-dawn raid on the guesthouse.
Explains why the house was so quiet while I prepared pancakes for our Saturday morning ritual.
“Miss Wrenley, why are your eyes puffy?” Ivy asks, abandoning Wrenley’s side to circle her. “Were you crying?”
Wrenley’s cheeks turn a deep scarlet, and she laughs louder than usual, then rakes a hand through her hair and replies, “No, sweetie. Just sleepy.”
“Oh.” Ivy considers this. “Papa’s eyes look weird too. And he’s using the wrong spatula.”
I glance down. She’s right. I’m using the fish spatula instead of the pancake turner. Christ.
Last night has affected me more than it should. I’ve fired plenty of nannies since moving here, and none of them had me questioning my sanity or my kitchen utensils.
“Maybe we should let Miss Wrenley go back to the guesthouse,” I say, still facing the stove.
“Why? Papa made extra pancakes,” Ivy announces, tugging Wrenley toward the table. “He always makes too many.”
I don’t. I make exactly seven. Three for me and four for Ivy who insists on slicing and arranging them into towers she demolishes with theatrical glee. The batter bowl sits empty by the stove.
