Page 69 of Only Mine
“Then why?”
“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” he says simply.
“Papa, look! A butterfly!”
Ivy’s voice drifts back, followed by Rome’s patient response about staying centered in the saddle.
The trail curves ahead, and Saint’s knee presses against mine as the horses navigate the turn. He doesn’t pull away.
“Your phone’s recording,” he observes, nodding to where I’ve propped it against the saddle horn.
“Is that okay? I just wanted...” I trail off, embarrassed.
“Wanted what?”
“To remember this.” The sound of my voice is more faded than I’d like. “For when I’m gone.”
His jaw works. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Talk about leaving. Not today.”
“You’re the one who?—”
“I know what I said.” His tone is unsettled. “Doesn’t mean I want to think about it.”
Penny stumbles slightly on a root, and Saint’s hand instantly shoots out, steadying me with a grip on my elbow. The touch burns through my sweater.
“Sorry,” I breathe, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.
“Stop apologizing.” He doesn’t let go. “And stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to do something stupid.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “What kind of stupid?”
His eyes darken. The hand on my elbow slides up to my shoulder, and for one suspended moment, I think he might actually pull me off Penny and onto his horse. The thought makes me dizzy.
“Miss Wrenley! Papa! You’re going too slow!” Ivy’s complaint breaks the spell.
Saint releases me like I’ve burned him. “Coming.”
We catch up to find Rome and Ivy stopped by a small creek. Ivy’s practically electric with excitement.
“Can we let the horses drink? Please?”
“Sure thing,” Rome says, but he’s watching us with knowing eyes. “Why don’t you two dismount for a minute? Stretch your legs. I’ll keep an eye on Ivy.”
I should protest that I don’t know how to get down, but Saint’s already off Dante, reaching up for me. His hands span my waist, and I let myself slide down, my body dragging against his the entire way.
We stand frozen, his hands still on me, my palms flat against his chest. Under the hat’s brim, his eyes are molten.
“This is a bad idea,” he mutters.
“The worst,” I agree.
