Page 35 of Only Mine
I loathe how desperate it sounds. How much it exposes the gaping hole in our lives.
“Ivy needs someone who sees her,” I continue, “And you seem to embrace her differences. The agency is backed up. This buys me time.”
Wrenley sets the mug down. “And what do I get out of extending my babysitting gig? Besides the pleasure of your sunny company?”
“What do you want?” I ask, wary.
Wrenley looks out the window toward the guesthouse, then back at me. “Space. Privacy. I came here to get away from everything, and from the little bit that I saw yesterday, I love this town.”
“You can stay rent-free,” I blurt, cursing inwardly. I’m usually a much better negotiator than this.
“I don’t usually take hand-outs, but while I’m taking care of your daughter, that seems fair. I don’t need you to pay me.”
“Retiring early, are you?”
Her face shutters. Wrenley shifts her weight. “I have enough saved away to get by.”
I don’t know why I asked that. Or why I feel a distinct clenching behind my ribs after noticing her answering expression. I have no qualms making a person shrivel where they stand when they don’t meet my expectations, but with Wrenley, it doesn’t feel like a dressing down. It feels like I’ve kicked a puppy.
“And after two weeks?” I ask.
She shrugs, a studied casualness. “After two weeks, I’ll have figured out my next move. And you’ll have found Mary Poppins 2.0.”
The coffee maker finishes brewing a second cup. I reach for it, needing its familiar, habitual buzz right about now.
“Keep her safe,” I say. “Stick to her routines as much as possible. And if anything, anything at all seems off, you call me. Immediately.”
Wrenley’s expression sobers. “I understand what’s at stake, Saint. Ivy will be in good hands.”
Something in her tone makes me believe her. Not trust her—I don’t trust anyone with Ivy—but I believe that she grasps the gravity of what I’m asking.
“Good,” I say, taking a long swallow of coffee, the heat doing little to warm the knot in my stomach.
A ghost of a smile plays on her lips, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a weariness there that mirrors my own, a fragility she tries to hide beneath a layer of quick wit.
“Just keep her happy,” I amend, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.
Before she can respond, the telltale thud of small feet hitting the stairs reaches my ears.
“Papa?” Ivy’s sleepy voice calls out, followed by a loud yawn.
She shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, her dark hair a wild halo around her head. Her gaze lands on Wrenley, then on the suitcase still by the door.
A flicker of confusion, then anxiety, crosses her small face.
“Miss Wrenley? You’re still here?” she asks, her voice small.
Wrenley’s expression softens instantly. She crouches down to Ivy’s level. “Morning, Ivy. Of course I’m still here.”
Ivy’s face breaks into a wide, relieved grin. She launches herself at Wrenley, wrapping her arms around her neck in a fierce hug.
Wrenley catches her easily, her earlier tension dissolving as she returns the embrace and laughs when she almost topples over.
I watch them, a complicated ache in my chest.
This is why.
This small, adorable child is the reason I’m letting this pink-haired, apple-dropping, car-denting woman stay in my house, in my life, for two more weeks.
