Page 145 of Only Mine
I pull back but Erin chases me down, catching my mouth harder this time, her teeth dragging, tongue insistent.
When I can’t take the desperation anymore, I gently break the kiss.
Her breath comes fast, chest rising and falling. She straightens, anger flickering behind her lashes.
“Is it because of her?” Erin asks.
I don’t answer.
Erin retreats but doesn’t bother to cover up, her shoulders squared and her chin high. “You really can’t do it, can you? She’s not coming back to you. She’s going to move on, leave this town, and live some fake life in a city like LA or New York. Wrenley’s the completeoppositeof you, Saint! She’s the exact type of person you want nothing to do with.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw and let the silence stretch until it starts to sweat.
“You done?” I ask.
Erin blinks, momentarily thrown. “Excuse me?”
“I said”—I take a step closer, dropping my voice into that low, razor-lined register that used to make line cooks cry—”are you fucking done?”
She folds her arms over her bare chest. “I’m just trying to make you see reason. Wrenley doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t belong with you.”
“And you do?” I laugh, and it’s not a nice sound. “You think because you slipped on a sweatshirt and drank my wine that makes you part of my life?”
Her face hardens. “You’re being an asshole.”
“Yeah, well, congratulations. You finally met me.” I step around her and reach for the sweatshirt still puddled on the floor. “You don’t get to use my daughter’s nightmares as leverage. You don’t get to wear Wrenley’s sweatshirt and crawl into her spot like you’re auditioning to replace her. And you sure as shit don’t get to decide who belongs in my life.”
Erin stiffens. “So what—you’re in love with her?”
I toss the sweatshirt onto the couch. “I was a fucking idiot for letting her go. That’s all you need to know.”
Erin says, voice tight, “You really think a girl like that is sitting in that apartment dreaming about playing house with a moody chef and his five-year-old? She has millions of fans. You have an awkward kid who draws on your walls.”
I grab the wineglass she left behind, overcoming the urge to throw it at the wall to watch it scare the shit out of Erin, the least she deserves after insulting my daughter. I dump it in the sink instead and say, in a deadly tone, “I don’t know what I think, but I’ll take not knowing over wasting another second pretending anyone else was ever going to measure up.”
Erin sputters. “If you want to chase some influencer who’s allergic to real life, then fine.”
When I turn around, Erin’s shoving her arms through her blouse, then grabbing her bag. Her cheeks are red, her expression tight with wounded pride.
“You need to find another nanny,” she snaps.
I nod once. “Yep. Figured.”
She hesitates like she wants to say something else, but the door slams before she can decide.
The kitchen smells like her perfume and smoke. I open a window, then finish making the coffee. With a steaming mug in my hands, I take a seat at the kitchen island and drink it black, watching the fire in the living room burn down to coals.
THIRTY-THREE
WRENLEY
Wine is the first to go into my cart because it’s the only item on my to-do list that makes sense.
The Merc on Main Street has six aisles and a few shelves of local wine, most of them with hand-drawn labels and names like “Blushing Falcon.” I pick that bottle and head to the counter. An elderly lady with bright purple nails, a puff of white hair, and neon pink lipstick rings me up.
“That’ll be sixteen dollars,” the woman says, her voice so surprisingly booming that I nearly drop the bottle. “Blushing Falcon’s our best seller. Though I’d have gone with the Midnight Wing whiskey myself. Has a kick that’ll knock your socks clean off.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” I say with a smile, digging through my purse.
