Page 131 of Only Mine
The pasta water bubbles on the stove, ready for the spaghetti I bought because Saint mentioned it was Ivy’s favorite. I’d planned to make something simple. Somethingthat wouldn’t require his help, so he could just relax, and I could cook for him for once.
Now I’m not sure if he’s coming at all.
I flip my phone over. Still nothing.
The comments are probably worse now. They always get worse as the day progresses, as more people discover the video, and as the algorithm pushes it to a broader audience. I haven’t looked since this morning, but I can feel them multiplying like bacteria in a petri dish.
I meant to delete it. After Brenda left, after I saw how far the speculation had gone, I meant to take it down. But every time I clicked on my account, I found myself watching it instead. Watching Saint’s hands move with that impossible grace, remembering how those same hands felt on my skin just minutes before I filmed him.
I love the way he cooks, and the respect and care he takes, like he’s coaxing a miracle into fruition. That’s all I meant to show.
It was about sharing something beautiful. Something that made me happy after months of fear and self-sabotage.
I dump the pasta into the water with more force than necessary, then wipe my hands on a dish towel. The sauce simmers quietly, a simple marinara because I’d be too nervous to attempt something more complex on a good day, never mind an evening with him.
A knock on the door nearly sends me jumping out of my skin.
For one suspended moment, I can’t move. Then I’m rushing toward it with my heart in my throat, smoothing my hair and tugging at my dress before I swing it open.
Saint’s standing there, rain dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. I don’t know when it started to storm, but it suddenly floods my senses—the damp smell, the sound of itbeating against the tin roof, the sight of his dark strands plastered against his forehead.
His jaw is set in a hard line, eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder. The collar of his black jacket is soaked, rivulets trailing down his broad shoulders.
“You came,” I breathe, relief washing through me.
His eyes finally meet mine, as cold and distant as winter lakes. No warmth. No crinkle at the corners. Nothing of the man who’d fucked me against the wall a few days ago.
Saint holds out a bottle of wine without a word.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for it. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel the familiar spark that always ignites between us when we touch.
But Saint simply lets go.
“Come in. I was worried when you didn’t answer my texts,” I say, stepping aside.
Saint’s boots leave wet ghosts on my tile. He stands in the entryway, rain dripping from his cuffs, and surveys my quaint apartment with a look I can’t read. The silence swells until the only sound is the hiss of my pasta boiling over.
I rush to the stove, cursing under my breath, and kill the heat. Saint’s behind me before I can process his movement, reaching for a clean dish towel and mopping up the starchy water spreading across the stove.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice smaller than I intend. I hate how needy I sound. “I got distracted.”
“Did you burn yourself?” Saint tosses the towel over the edge of my sink and holds up one of my hands, inspecting it.
The electricity is instant, like he brought lightning inside with him as well as the sudden storm. It flashes outside the window above my sink as if punctuating the feel of his touch.
Something in his voice is off, though. Less rasp, more empty. I want to reach for him the way I always do, but Iknow better than to do any sudden movements in front of an unpredictable animal.
I clear my throat, pulling out of his hold. “I’m fine. Um, I was just going to make spaghetti and salad. Ivy told me it’s one of her favorites. I hope that’s okay.”
“She’s at Noa’s again tonight,” Saint says, grabbing the pot with his bare hands and pouring the pasta into a colander in the sink. “Last-minute sleepover.”
“Oh.” I back away into the main area where I’ve set the small, circular table. “Should I reschedule?”
He just incorporates the pasta into the sauce, water flying off his hair and forearms in small arcs. “We’re good. I’m here now.”
I set the wine on the table. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly tip it over. Every motion of mine feels like performance art for an audience who won’t clap.
He scoops the spaghetti into two bowls, sprinkles cheese, and brings them to the table. Though my stomach is the size of a pebble, I sit down to eat. He watches my every movement, even when I fold my hands onto my lap and pretend I’m not vibrating out of my skin.
