Page 91 of Only Mine
Saint’s sharp intake of breath tells me he heard her whisper. When I straighten, his face is carved from stone, but an unnamed pain ripples behind his eyes.
“Ivy. Time to go.”
She deflates but obeys, slipping her small hand into his. I turn to leave, needing distance before I do something ridiculous like beg him to let me back into their lives.
“Wrenley.”
I pause but don’t turn around. Can’t. Not when his voice sounds like gravel and yearning, a tone he reserves just for me.
“The apartment above the bookstore. Is it ... are you comfortable there?”
The question catches me off guard. I glance over my shoulder. Neither he nor Ivy has moved.
“It’s nice,” I say.
“The radiator in that building is ancient. Marcus should have—” He stops himself, cheek muscles popping against his stubble. “Never mind.”
“He’s giving me a great deal on the place.” I shift my feet. “How did you know where I’m living?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Small town.”
“Right.” I take another step away. “I really should get going.”
“You look good.”
The observation stops me cold. “So do you.”
Saint would look good half drowned and covered in dead fish. He’d look amazing dressed in a paper bag. Even now, when he’s exhausted, rumpled, and looking like he’s been subsisting on rage and coffee, he’s devastating. The stubble just makes him look more dangerous. The wrinkled shirt draws attention to his shoulders and the way the fabric pulls when he moves. And those shadows under his eyes? They just make me want to drag him to bed.
For sleep. Obviously. Just sleep.
“Papa, you’re staring again,” Ivy observes.
Heat creeps up my neck.
Saint blinks, the moment fracturing. “Come on,mon trèsor. Let’s get you fed.”
I glance at Ivy, whose face has fallen. “Maybe I could walk you both back to town? Make sure she doesn’t stage another escape attempt?”
Ivy brightens immediately. “Yes! And you can tell me about your new apartment! Does it have good hiding spots?”
“Ivy,” Saint warns.
“What? I’m just asking for future reference.”
Ivy slips between us, grabbing my hand with her left and Saint’s with her right. “This is perfect! Just like before!”
Saint and I carefully don’t look at each other as we start walking, Ivy chattering about everything she’s done in the past five days. Each detail is a small knife—how she tried to make cookies with Miss Erin, but they turned out “crunchy in the wrong way,” how she painted a picture of me, but Miss Erin said it was “nice but maybe focus on something else now.”
“She sounds...” I search for a neutral word. “Structured.”
“She has a degree in early childhood development.” Saint’s voice is carefully neutral.
“I’m sure that’s very helpful.”
“It is.”
“Good.”
