Page 150 of Only Mine
Oh my God.“Saint, you don’t have to?—”
He gets down on both knees, getting soaked in the growing puddles. This proud, intimidating man who commands a kitchen and makes grown servers shrivel is kneeling in the rain, looking up at me like I hold his entire world in my hands.
Or his broken heart in the form of a rock made by his daughter.
“I don’t care if they camp outside the restaurant,” he says, voice strong despite the vulnerable position. “I don’t care if they follow us to the grocery store or turn our lives into a circus. I care that my daughter painted a broken heart because the woman she loves disappeared from her life.”
His hand squeeze mine, the stone heart warming within my palm.
“I can’t control what goes viral,” I whisper, “And I don’t want to give up what I do, but I wouldn’t ever show Ivy.”
His eyes never leave mine. “I’ve already told my staff, no photos in the restaurant. Had my lawyer send cease-and-desist letters to the food vloggers who’ve been calling. Changed all my social media settings.” He pauses. “Well, Noa changed them. I’m still terrible with that stuff.”
Despite everything, I smile. “You made a video.”
“Took me forty-seven tries. Ivy had to show me how to work the camera.” His thumb strokes across my knuckles. “But I would’ve figured out TikTok if that’s what it took to get you back.”
The image of Saint struggling with TikTok makes me laugh through my tears. “I don’t think you’re ready for TikTok.”
“I’m ready for whatever comes with loving you,” he says simply. “The comments, the attention, the people who think they know our story. None of it matters without you here.”
I gasp, heart swelling into my throat. “What did you just say? The first part, I mean, the part about?—”
“Being in love with you? Yeah. I mean it. I fell for you the night you broke into my property and threatened me with my own cast iron skillet. I’ve been falling ever since.”
The broken heart rock stays warm and dry in my palm, Ivy’s childish artwork suddenly the most precious thing I’ve ever held.
“Ivy’s been teaching me about second chances,” Saint continues, his voice soft as the rain. “Apparently I’m a slow learner.”
“The slowest,” I agree, pulling him to a stand.
His arms come around me, solid and sure, holding meagainst his chest where I can hear his heart racing. “Is that a yes?”
I think about Maisy and the bikers rooting for us. About Ivy setting three plates every night. About the way this man gives me the courage to want things I thought I could never have in the real world.
“Ask me properly,” I whisper against his throat.
“Wrenley Morgan,” Saint says, his voice low and rough against my ear, “will you come home with me?”
“Yes,” I breathe into his skin.
Saint’s eyes darken, and he guides my mouth to his with a crooked finger under my chin. He takes my breath, obliterates my mind, and tastes like heaven. He cradles my head, deepening the kiss, a groan rising from deep within his chest.
“Your post,” I murmur against his lips. “It’s probably going viral since you haven’t uploaded a thing in years. Everyone was waiting.”
Saint’s roaming hands pause at my waist. “Let it. I want the whole world to know I’m the idiot who almost lost you and now I’m the lucky bastard who gets to keep you. Think your followers would approve?”
I laugh, pulling him closer as the rain soaks through our clothes. “Oh, they’re going tolose their minds.”
“Good,” he growls, and kisses me again. “About time Chef Daddy lived up to his name.”
THIRTY-FOUR
WRENLEY
We’re both soaked through when we step back inside the house. The rain ticks against the windows, soft and steady like it’s trying not to interrupt.
Saint shuts the door behind us and shrugs off his wet shirt, then nods toward the hallway. “I’ll grab you something dry.”
