Page 64 of Only Mine
“Rome also once broke his collarbone trying to ride a mechanical bull while holding a plate of nachos,” I mutter. “His judgment is questionable.”
FIFTEEN
WRENLEY
The smell hits me first: hay and leather and something earthy that immediately tells me I’m out of my element. Talon Ranch sprawls before us, all wooden fences and dusty paths, and I’m acutely aware that my sneakers are the wrong shade of white for this place.
“Miss Wrenley, look!” Ivy grabs my arm, dragging me toward the barn. The girl likes to lead. “That’s where Scribbles lives!”
Saint follows, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He’s been quiet since we left his house. Quieter than usual, which is saying something. Every time I catch his eye, he looks away, like he’s remembering this is my last day, if it can even be considered that. What is this morning to him? Am I an unwanted interloper, or does he want me here?
I just never know with him.
Inside the barn, Rome greets us with an easy smile that’s nothing like Saint’s rare, guarded ones. He’s all golden skin and confidence, the kind of guy who probably never overthinks anything.
He scoops Ivy up, making her squeal. “Scribbles is set to go. Ready to ride?”
“Yes! But Miss Wrenley needs gear too. She’s never been on a horse.” Ivy announces this like it’s a scandal.
Rome’s eyebrows lift as he sets Ivy down. “City girl?”
“Guilty.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Well, we’ll fix that.” His grin widens. “Let’s get you sorted.”
Saint shifts somewhere behind me. I can feel his presence like a phantom behind me, watching as Rome guides us deeper into the barn where riding helmets and boots line the walls.
“You should be about a size seven,” Rome says, studying my feet with a practiced eye. He pulls a pair of worn leather riding boots from a shelf. “These belonged to my sister before she moved to Colorado. Should fit you just fine.”
I take the boots, surprised by their weight. They’re beautiful, the leather soft from years of use.
“Thank you,” I say, sitting on a nearby bench to slip them on.
“Miss Wrenley needs a helmet too!” Ivy declares, already trying on a black one that swallows her small head.
“Safety first,” Rome agrees, selecting a navy helmet from the wall. “Can’t have Saint losing his favorite nanny to a tumble.”
Saint makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a grunt. When I glance up, his mouth is a thin line, eyes fixed on something fascinating on the barn wall.
The boots fit perfectly, though I feel clumsy standing in them.
Rome adjusts the strap under Ivy’s chin. She stands perfectly still, clearly familiar with the routine.
“Your turn,” Rome says to me, walking over and handing me the navy helmet.
Our hands touch during the exchange, and I’m acutely aware of Saint watching us from the corner of the barn. When I turn, helmet in hand, his jawline looks carved from stone, his eyes tracking Rome’s every movement with unmistakable possessiveness over me.
“What?” Rome asks, noticing Saint’s expression.
“Nothing,” Saint says, his tone flat as pavement.
Rome shrugs and turns back to me. “Let me help you with that.”
“I’ll help her,” Saint says suddenly, stepping forward so suddenly that stalks of hay snap under his boots.
The barn quiets. Even Ivy stops fidgeting.
Saint takes the helmet from my hands.
