Page 9 of Only Mine
“Like on Instagram?” Ivy perks up.
My attention shoots to my daughter. “How do you know about Instagram?”
Ivy shrugs. “Aunt Celeste lets me see her phone sometimes. She follows lots of pretty ladies who tell her to get ready with them.”
Wrenley nearly chokes on her wine.
“That’s not exactly what I do,” she starts.
“So you’re an influencer,” I say, the word tasting sour in my mouth.
A woman who makes her living telling people what to buy. Just what I need in my guesthouse.
Wrenley shifts in her seat. “I was. I’m taking a break.”
“From influencing?” I can’t keep the disdain from my voice.
She meets my gaze, not with insult, but something steadier. “From a lot of things.”
Whatever sarcastic comment was forming on my tongue slithers back down my throat. There’s weight behind her answer, a heaviness I recognize all too well.
“Miss Wrenley, do you want to read me a bedtime story?” Ivy pipes up, oblivious to the tension. “Papa always does the voices wrong.”
“I do not.”
“You do! You make the princess sound like a robot. You do a great dragon voice, though.”
Wrenley’s lips twitch. “I’d love to read you a story, Ivy, but only if your dad says it’s okay.”
I open my mouth to refuse. To tell my daughter we’ve already disrupted Miss Morgan’s evening enough. To explain that bedtime is our time, one of the few sacred routines we’ve maintained since Celine died.
But Ivy’s eyes, wide and hopeful, are on me.
How long has it been since she’s asked for anything this simple? Since she’s been this excited about bedtime?
“Fine,” I say. “One story.”
“Yes!” Ivy pumps her fist, nearly knocking over her water. “I’ll go pick one out. The best one!”
She scrambles down from her chair and races toward the stairs.
“Walking feet!” I call after her, but she’s already thundering up to her room.
Silence settles between Wrenley and me. She takes another sip of wine, realizes it’s empty, then sets it back down. I also notice she’s practically licked her plate clean.
Her attention darts around the kitchen, anywhere but at me. When she catches me looking, she ducks her head.
“Sorry,” she says. “I was hungrier than I realized.”
“Never apologize for finishing a dish. Would you like more?”
“Oh, I couldn’t?—”
I’m already reaching for her plate. “It’s not a trick question.”
“Then yes, please.” A tentative smile plays at her lips. “It might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
I ladle more chicken and sauce onto her plate, adding extra potatoes. When I set it back in front of her, our fingers brush. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt up my arm.
