Page 2 of Only Mine
This is not a gardener or a caretaker. I know that immediately.
The overhead lights snap on, and I’m blinking into his incredible face. Another tattoo climbs the side of his neck, something botanical and delicate that contradicts everything else about him. His stubble is uneven, like he forgot to shave this morning, there’s smudge of flour on his cheek, and?—
Oh good, my fight or flight response chose “flirt.”
Scrambling backward, I slam into the kitchen counter. My hand closes around a heavy cast-iron pan sitting on the stove.
I thrust the cookware forward with both hands. “Stay back. I’ll throw it.”
He stops prowling toward me, brows lifting. “You’re threatening me with my own skillet?” His mouth twitches like he might actually smile, but the moment passes. “Careful. That pan’s seen three generations. It’s worth more than your car.”
“Yoube careful. You’re the one who burst in here like some kind of”—I release one hand to gesture wildly, and the cast-iron drops like an anchor, nearly pulling my shoulder out of its socket—“tattooed storm god!”
“I asked who thehellyou are.”
Through the tunnel of adrenaline, I finally hear the melody in his voice, low, accented, and unmistakably furious. It yanks me back to reality.
“Wrenley Morgan,” I manage to say, lifting my chindespite the water dripping from my hair and my heart bursting from my chest. “Celeste invited me. She said your guesthouse was available.”
“Celeste,” he repeats, the name sounding like a curse on his lips.
His eyes travel slowly down my body, taking in my soaked clothes, the way my white T-shirt clings to every curve. It’s not a leer. It’s an assessment, and somehow, that’s worse. Heat crawls up my neck.
“She didn’t tell you,” I surmise.
“This is private property, Miss Morgan.”
“Which I was invited to stay at.”
“By my ex sister-in-law,” he says, cheek muscles pulsing. “Who doesn’t live here. She had no right.”
“Okay, well, she failed to mention that part.” I place the skillet on the counter. Carefully.. “Look, there’s obviously been a misunderstanding. Celeste told me the homeowner was aware of this arrangement. That I could stay here for six weeks while?—”
“Six weeks?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Absolutely the fuck not.”
Blinking rapidly, I blubber, “I signed a contract.”
This is a lie. I signed nothing. But this man makes me want to plant my feet. I bet no one stands up to him. Ever. He has that air about him.
“With whom? Because it wasn’t with me.”
“Sir—”
“Saint,” he cuts in.
“What?”
“Everyone calls me Saint.” His mouth twists like even he finds this ironic.
“Fine. Saint.” The name feels strangely intimate on my tongue. “I don’t want to cause problems. I just need...” Myvoice cracks embarrassingly. “I need somewhere quiet. To regroup. Celeste said you wouldn’t mind.”
I hug my arms across my chest, suddenly aware of how transparent I’ve become.
A muscle under his eye twitches. “I need you gone.”
“Tonight? In this storm?” The thought of getting back in my car and finding a hotel in a town I don’t know makes my stomach knot. “Please, I can leave first thing tomorrow.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.” He takes another step toward me, as if he will personally escort me off the property, and I catch a whiff of something spicy and warm beneath the rain smell. I hold on to that instead of crumpling into a ball and keening with terror.
