Page 5 of Only Mine
My phone buzzes with a voicemail from Nora I missed while dealing with our unexpected guest. I put it to my ear, if only to end the conversation with Ivy before she wins.“Mr. Toussaint, I cannot and will not continue in this position. Your daughter has deliberately destroyed my vehicle with what appears to be industrial-grade paint. This goes beyond creative expression. I’ve contacted my insurance and will be in touch regarding damages. The psychological evaluation I suggested last month might be worth reconsidering.”
I delete the message, picturing Nora’s pristine white Honda now decorated with sparkling unicorns. Ivy’s artistic talent is undeniable. Her impulse control, however...
“Go change,” I order Ivy. “Now.”
Ivy trudges upstairs, leaving twin trails of water behind her.
After wiping them up, I stalk back to the kitchen where my ruined coq au vin simmers, abandoned mid-stir. The sauce has separated, the chicken likely overcooked. Goddamn Celeste and her meddling. There was a time when I’d have sooner cut off my own finger than let a sauce break.
I grab my phone and stab at her contact, listening to it ring while I pull ingredients from the fridge. Butter. Shallots. Mushrooms. The knife hits the cutting board with satisfying precision as I dice the shallots into perfect, identical pieces.
Straight to voicemail.
“Celeste, call me back. Now. You can’t just install random women in my guesthouse without?—”
A text interrupts my message.
It’s for your own good. She needs this. So do you.
I toss my phone onto the counter, nearly burning my forearm on the cast iron. “Fuck!”
After snatching a towel from the drawer and wiping my hands, I take three deep breaths.
Dinner is salvageable. Barely. I whisk in cold butter, watching the sauce come back together, glossy and rich. My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from thousands of dinner services.
While I’m whisking, Ivy pads into the kitchen and straightens her place settings. Noticing, I turn and grab three plates from the cupboard to finish it, then pause, staring at my hands.
Why am I using the good plates? I only keep them for?—
No one. I don’t keep them for anyone these days.
The last time I cooked for someone besides Ivy and Celeste was one year ago. Some investor wanted to discuss reopening my Paris location. I sent him home with a signed NDA and a firm no.
Now there’s a stranger in my guesthouse. A beautiful stranger with rain-soaked clothes and bright hazel eyes that seared right through me.
I’m not blind. I noticed her even while pissed off. Tall, curves in all the right places, that streak of pink in her blond hair almost the same shade as the peaks of her nipples showing through her damp white shirt…
Nope. Not going there.
Cloth napkins. Wineglass for me, water glasses for all. I catch myself polishing a water spot off Wrenley’s glass and swear under my breath.
Through the window above the sink, I spot a glimpse of movement at the guesthouse. She’s changed into dry clothes, a loose cream sweater that slips off one shoulder as she peers out at the rain. Even from here, I can trace the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone.
My body reacts before my brain can shut it down.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, turning away before she can spotme.
This woman is trouble.
Tomorrow morning, she’s gone. I’ll help her pack if I have to. I don’t care what Celeste thinks we “need.” I don’t need a house guest with eyes the color of a perfect autumn day and a body that reminds me of everything I’ve sworn off.
The clock reads 6:48. Ivy’s bare feet slap against the hardwood as she races around. I turn, ready to scold her for not wearing socks, but the words die in my throat.
At some point between my whisking and now, she’s changed into her “fancy” dress, the one with the tulle skirt she insisted on for her school picture. Her damp hair is out of her pigtails and brushed, and she’s even attempted a crooked bow on the side.
The sight hits me like a sucker punch.
“Do I look pretty, Papa?” She twirls, the dress flaring around her knees.
