Page 1 of Only Mine
ONE
WRENLEY
The rain’s trying to tell me something.
It’s been following me for three hundred miles, from New York City to this narrow coastal road where the GPS signal keeps dropping.Not a coincidence, I think, as droplets hammer against my windshield like tiny accusations.
Turn back, Wrenley. You don’t belong here, either.
I haven’t slept for more than four hours at a stretch in months. My eyes burn. My shoulders ache. The comments section of my life has been empty since I pulled the plug on everything two weeks ago, and I still check for notifications that will never come.
The wipers can barely keep up with the storm. I squeeze the steering wheel tighter as my headlights catch the reflective edges of a wrought-iron gate. This must be it. The address Celeste texted matches the elegant numbers mounted on stone pillars, barely visible through sheets of water.
I pull up to the intercom and press the call button.
Nothing happens.
I try again, holding it longer. Still nothing.
“Of course,” I mutter, checking my phone. No service. Just great.
A small dirt road winds along the perimeter of the property. I carefully follow it, wipers fighting against the downpour, until I spot a service entrance with a smaller gate that’s unlocked and hanging slightly ajar. I squeeze my car through the narrow opening until the property unfolds before me, glimpsed through flashes of lightning and my flickering headlights.
Cypress trees flank a winding driveway that leads to a sprawling stone house with dramatic windows. a palace in winter, a lake house in summer, a harvest manor in the fall, and my personal favorite, a garden paradise during spring. It adopts any fantasy a passerby could think up, simply by admiring it. Odds are, the owner of such a palatial dream doesn’t have to fantasize about any of it, because they’re living proof.
But I’m not here for the shapeshifting mansion. Celeste’s directions mentioned a guesthouse somewhere to the east. I follow a smaller, offshoot path until my headlights illuminate a structure about a hundred yards from the main residence.
As I cut the engine and sit listening to rain drumming on the roof, my phone suddenly buzzes.
Excited to get service, I read the text immediately. It’s from Celeste.
Arrived safely?
I type back:No one answered the intercom. Found a side entrance.
Three dots appear, then:
The key is under the blue pot by the guesthouse door. Make yourself at home!
I grab my duffel, resolving to grab my bigger suitcasefrom the trunk when there’s less downpour, and dash through the rain to the guesthouse’s porch. The blue pot holds a plant that’s definitely seen better days, and the entire thing tips over when I try to lift it, spilling wet soil across my already-soaked shoes. Perfect. I dig through the mud until my fingers close around a metal key, then wipe it on my jeans, leaving a dark streak across my thigh.
The lock sticks, because why wouldn’t it? I jiggle the key, shoulder the door, and nearly fall face-first into the house when it finally gives.
Then I’m stopped cold by the sheer luxury of the interior. Vaulted ceilings with rough-hewn beams. An open kitchen and a stone fireplace that could roast an entire deer. Windows that frame the storm like it’s performance art. It’s the kind of space I would have once killed to feature on my platform, a rustic opulence without trying too hard, lived-in without being messy.
“This could work,” I whisper, running a hand through my damp hair and turning slowly in one place.
For a moment, I just gape, dripping and disoriented. No notifications blowing up my phone. No emails demanding immediate response. No content to create, no comments to moderate, no endless performance of a life I no longer recognize.
Just me and the rain and a gorgeous new home.
I exhale for what feels like the first time in months.
My inner peace shatters when the back door slams open with enough force that I actually yelp, stumbling backward and knocking over a side table.
A man fills the frame, backlit by a flash of lightning that illuminates broad shoulders and a stance that suggests he’s accustomed to being obeyed.
That burst of electricity reveals him in full: rain-slicked,dark hair, day-old stubble along a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes so startlingly blue, they seem to glow with their own internal fire. Rainwater tracks down his throat, disappearing beneath a Henley that clings to his chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing forearms mapped with intricate tattoos that disappear beneath the fabric.
