Page 6 of Only Mine
“You look beautiful,mon trésor.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “But why…?”
“For dinner with Miss Wrenley!” She gives me an indulgent smile like I’m the slow one here. “It’s a special ‘casion.”
Guilt sits in my stomach like a rock. One year since we’ve had anyone over. Twelve months of just the two of us sitting down for dinner.
“Papa, can I set out the candles, too?”
“No candles.” I clear my throat. “Go wash your hands.”
I plate the chicken, arranging it with the precision that once earned me Michelin stars. The sauce pools perfectly against the roasted fingerling potatoes. A sprinkle of fresh thyme. It’s muscle memory, not effort.
“Papa, is it time yet?” Ivy yells from the powder room in the hallway.
“Almost.” I check the plating one last time. “Did you wash your hands?”
She returns to the kitchen holding her hands up and showing off clean palms.
“Is Miss Wrenley going to sit next to me or you?” she asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes! I want to show her my bracelet and tell her about my book and introduce her to Mr. Pawsome and?—”
There’s a knock on the door to our back porch at exactly 7:00.
Merde.Of course she would be punctual. I was hoping she might chicken out.
Before I can stop her, Ivy bolts for the door, her tulle skirt flouncing. I take a steadying breath, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, and follow at a more measured pace.
“I wore my fancy dress!” Ivy exclaims as a greeting. Her voice climbs an octave as she swings open the door.
“You look stunning,” I hear Wrenley reply as I round the corner. “That’s the prettiest dress I’ve seen in ages.”
Ivy preens, twirling again while Wrenley crouches down to my daughter’s level.
“Papa made chicken. It’s the best chicken in the whole world. He cooks it in restaurants.”
I gesture vaguely behind me. “Dinner’s ready.”
Wrenley straightens, finally meeting my eyes. “Thank you for the invitation. It smells amazing.”
A cream sweater hangs loose on her frame, slipping offone shoulder to reveal skin that looks impossibly soft. Her damp hair is pulled back in a messy knot, and without the rain plastering everything to her skin, she looks ... different. Softer. Flawless.
“It wasn’t an invitation,” I say, and it comes out like an accusation. “It was Ivy’s idea.”
An emotion close to hurt ripples across Wrenley’s face, but she covers it with a smile. “Well, I appreciate it all the same.”
Ivy grabs Wrenley’s hand and pulls her toward the kitchen. “You can sit by me. Come on!”
I catch Wrenley’s eye again as she’s dragged past me.
“She’s … enthusiastic this evening,” I say as an explanation.
“I can see that.” A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “Must be genetic.”
I scoff.
In the kitchen, Ivy positions Wrenley at the place setting at the end of the island, then climbs onto her own chair between us. I serve the plates with practiced efficiency.
