Page 123 of Only Mine
“My agent. My manager.” I scramble out of bed, searching for my clothes from last night. “Shit, I never gave her my newaddress above the bookstore. She wasn’t supposed to be here until next week!”
The pounding intensifies. “Wren! Open the door! We need to talk!”
Saint moves, pulling on sweatpants. “Stay here.”
“No, wait for me!”
But he’s already heading for the bedroom door.
I throw on his shirt from last night and race after him, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. Through the living room window, I catch a glimpse of Brenda’s rental car, a gleaming white BMW.
Saint doesn’t see me coming.
I leap onto his back, scrabbling against his neck as he chokes out a “What the fuck—” and stumbles away from the door with one hand still reaching for the doorknob.
“She can’t see you!” I hiss into his ear. “Not like this!”
“Why not?” Saint growls, but he stays in place and doesn’t try for the door again.
I cling tighter, wrapping my legs around his waist like a deranged koala. “Because she’ll make this into a PR nightmare.”
The front door rattles again. “I can hear you in there!” Brenda’s voice cuts through the wood. “Open up before I call the police!”
“She would,” I warn, keeping my spot as Saint’s new spider-monkey. “She’s the type to call the fire department, too. Report me missing. Make a scene.”
“Fucking hell,” Saint mutters, reaching behind to grab my thigh.
“Promise you’ll hide.”
“In my own fucking house?”
“Please,” I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. “She can’t know about us.”
Something in my voice must get through to him because he stops trying to pry me off. “Fine.”
I slide down his back, my bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. Saint turns to face me, surveying my disheveled hair, his oversized shirt down to my knees, and the obvious fact that I’m wearing nothing underneath.
He cocks a brow. “I don’t think my presence or not will make a lick of difference.”
I’ve resorted to pushing against his pecs.
“Go. Bedroom. Now.” I shove at his chest, but it’s like trying to move an inked-up mountain.
Saint’s mouth quirks in what might be amusement if I weren’t having a complete breakdown. “You realize I’m six-four and covered in tattoos. I don’t exactly blend into furniture.”
The pounding stops abruptly, replaced by the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.
We both freeze.
“She has a fucking key?” Saint’s voice drops to a deadly whisper.
“No.” My blood turns to ice. “She picked the lock. Oh god, she actually picked the lock.”
The front door swings open with a theatrical flourish, and Brenda Chu waltzes in. She’s perfectly put together despite the early hour in a designer blazer, red lipstick, and a blow-out that doesn’t move despite the autumn wind following her.
Brenda’s eyes land on me first, then slide to Saint’s bare chest with the pause of someone who did not expect to see a glorious rack of muscles under tanned skin and multicolor ink before 8 a.m.
“Well.” She blinks, tucking what looks suspiciously like alock pick into her purse. “You must be the owner of the guesthouse Wrenley’s been staying in.”
