Page 15 of Only Mine
I look down at myself. “Occupational hazard of creativity.”
“Come on,” he says, turning toward the house. “You can wash up inside.”
I follow him across the damp lawn, conscious of my bare legs beneath the robe and the bird’s nest that my hair has surely become. How can a man on the brink of a meltdown and a tantrum still look so damned delicious? It makes mewonder if I’m still feeling the effects of my own breakdown two weeks ago.
Saint’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks it, and his face darkens.
“Shit.” He stares up toward the house. “I need to make some calls. The nanny agency says they’re out of options, and I’m supposed to be prepping for the governor’s dinner tonight.”
“That’s rough,” I offer, genuinely sympathetic.
Saint’s jaw works back and forth as he mulls over his situation.
“Papa!” Ivy’s voice carries from the house. “The toaster’s smoking again!”
Saint closes his eyes briefly.
“Coming!” he calls back, then fixes me with another unreadable look. “You don’t have to join us if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
He nods once, then turns and heads for the house. I follow a few steps behind, watching the way his muscles move under his shirt, trying not to stare too hard at the way those sweatpants cup his?—
No. Absolutely not. I’m not here to ogle some stranger who just had a justifiable dad-panic. Even if he does have the kind of shoulders that could probably carry both a restaurant and a kindergartner at the same time.
Snap out of it.
I’ve never had particularly good taste and men, but even this is a new low for me.
The kitchen is a disaster zone when we walk in. Smoke billows from the toaster, strawberries are scattered all overthe counter, and Ivy’s standing on a chair waving a hand towel.
“I wanted to make you toast,” she announces, completely unfazed by the potential fire hazard.
Saint moves with insane speed, unplugging the toaster and opening windows. He takes the smoking appliance to the sink and dumps the charred remains of what might have been bread into the garbage disposal.
“Ivy, what have I told you about using appliances without an adult?”
His voice borders on chilling, mixed with the realization that he doesn’t want to terrify his child.
She shrugs, still standing on the chair. “I am an adult. I’m five.”
“Five is not—” Saint stops, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just … get off the chair. Please. I’ll make breakfast.”
His phone buzzes again. And again. He glances at it with a grimace.
“Do you need to take that?” I ask.
“It can wait.”
The tightness around his mouth says otherwise.
“I can watch her for a minute,” I offer. “If you need to make a call.”
Saint looks at me, protective instincts struggling with practical necessity.
His phone buzzes again. He mutters something in French.
“Go,” I say, waving him off. “I’ll make sure no appliances catch fire in your absence.”
