Page 96 of Only Mine
I tap out a reply:Yes. See you then.
Ralph meows, clearly judging my life choices.
“It’s just dinner,” I tell him, though my heart pounds like I’m confessing to murder. “I’ll be in public. Surrounded by people. He’ll be busy in the kitchen.”
My phone vibrates again with a notification from Instagram. I swipe it away without looking, then power off the device completely.
I need a shower. I need to wash off the trail dust and the sensation of Saint’s arms around me and the lingering fear that someone dangerous knows where I am.
The bathroom is tiny, but the water pressure is surprisingly good. I stand under the hot spray for a long time, letting it sluice over my skin, trying to wash away the residue of fear.
It doesn’t work.
The comment is seared into my brain, a brand mark over the fragile serenity I’d started to build.
Pink looks better.
I miss watching you sleep, princess.
I scrub at my hair with too much force, the pink a mocking reminder of my attempt to reclaim some part of myself.
After toweling off, I stare at my reflection. The woman looking back is a mess. Dark circles under her eyes, a tremor in her lips she can’t quite control.
This is not the picture of a woman about to have a casual dinner date. But I promised Ivy. I promised Saint. And a small, treacherous part of me wants to go. Wants to sit in the warm glow of C’est Trois and see Saint in his element.
I choose a simple black dress and spend too long on my makeup. Ralph watches me from the doorway, his green eyes unnervingly perceptive.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him, stepping into the new suede cowboy boots I bought yesterday. “I’m fine.”
He blinks slowly, unconvinced.
Grabbing my keys and a small clutch, I take a deep breath. The lock clicks behind me, a small sound in the quiet of the stairwell.
One foot in front of the other. That’s all it takes.
The walk to C’est Trois is only a few blocks, but every shadow seems to lengthen, every passerby feels like a potential threat. By the time I reach the restaurant, my palms are sweating.
The front windows glow gold, condensation fuzzing the edges of the glass. Inside, the tables are half full. I hover on the sidewalk, half lit by the interior, half hidden by theshadow of the awning. My reflection stares back: tall, a little haunted, armed with lipstick.
Saint clocks me through the glass before I make it to the door. He looks up from a conversation with a server, his head tilting a fraction.
In that second, the world slows. That impossible blue collides with my gaze, and I’m unmoored, tossed back into last week’s perfection: his body pinning mine to the mattress, his mouth on my scars. Holding me in place.
Saint is the first to compose himself, but I can tell that my appearance has knocked his evening off its axis.
C’est Trois is warm and bright inside, and the host stand is operated by the same blonde from my last visit. She spots me when I walk in, pasting on a smile and asking, “Table for…?”
“Toussaint.”
The name sticks against the back of my throat.
Her gaze flicks over my outfit and hair. “Right. He said you’d be joining him. This way.”
She leads me past the open kitchen, where Saint stands at the pass. He’s in chef blacks tonight, sleeves rolled, arms tense with veins cresting under his tattoos.
When the hostess says, “Your guest is here, sir,” he looks up.
His blue pulls me under again.
