Page 101 of Only Mine
His voice goes so flat I almost miss the tremor in it. “I told myself it was bad luck. That I couldn’t have changed anything. But the truth is, she was calling because she was scared to drive in the dark. She just wanted someone to say she’d be okay.”
I can’t look at him. My chest aches so fiercely that it steals my voice. I know this isn’t about me, not really, but the weight of his confession presses me into the chair.
“Ivy was two. She doesn’t remember her mother, not really. But every time she wakes up from a nightmare, she calls for her. Not me. Her mother.”
Saint rubs his palms against his thighs, tattoos shifting.
“I’ve spent the last three years making sure nothing like that ever happens again. No surprises. No fuckups. No distractions.” He inspects his hands, the callused knuckles, the ragged half-moons of his nails. “I thought if I just stayed in control, I could keep everyone safe. But that’s not how it works, is it?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“You’re coming home with me tonight.”
I laugh, but it’s not a sound so much as a breath expelled in disbelief. “Is that your solution? Kidnap me?”
Saint stands, blocking the prep room door with his entire body. “You think I’m joking?”
“You’re not actually going to shove me in the trunk of your car, are you?”
He shrugs, a dangerous tilt to his mouth. “You wanna test me?”
I want to argue, to throw up a boundary just to see if I still can, but the truth is, the idea of being alone in my apartment tonight terrifies me. Even with Ralph, even with the triple locks. Even with the lights on.
The last time fear burrowed this deep, it took three days to stop the shakes.
Saint doesn’t even wait for the protest. He stands and offers his hand. I take it, and the steadiness of his warm, dry palm is enough to make my knees work again. He doesn’t let go, just leads me through the kitchen, ignoring the gossamer hush that falls over the line as we pass.
He detours to the VIP table where Ivy sits with Mags, her chin propped on her fists.
She looks up at our entrance, worry creasing her brow. “Miss Wrenley! Are you okay? Did you barf?”
I kneel beside her chair and smooth a hand over her hair, feigning composure. “I’m okay. I just needed a minute.”
Mags eyes all three of us. “Everything all right?”
“Can we get the rest boxed?” Saint asks her. “And dessert, to go.”
She nods, already in motion. “I’ll pack up some of Ivy’s favorites for you, too.”
Saint dips his chin in thanks to Mags, then gently shepherds me toward the back exit, bypassing the main dining room and the sight lines of any remaining guests.
The night air is brutal after the heat of the kitchen, but it wakes me up. My boots scrape the gravel of the lot behind C’est Trois. Saint’s hand never leaves my elbow, guiding withquiet insistence. Ivy skips ahead to the car, reciting her wish list of ice cream toppings.
Saint opens the passenger door for me, waits until I’m settled, then he tucks a blanket from the back seat around my lap.
“It’s clean,” he says, misreading my startled glance. “For emergencies. Ivy runs cold.”
I wish I could say something and explain my gratitude, embarrassment, and confusion at being so completely and forcibly cared for. The words won’t come, so I just sit there, the blanket tucked around my knees, and watch Saint as he buckles Ivy into her car seat, runs back in to grab our food, then settles into the driver’s side, the engine catching with a deep-throated rumble.
During the drive to Saint’s house, I aim my gaze out the window, watching the town fold up for the night, every porch light a tiny beacon in the dark.
Saint’s hands stay anchored on the steering wheel, but I feel him watching me at every stoplight. I don’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe for me to break again. Maybe for me to run.
When we pull into his driveway, the headlights sweep over the familiar porch. The same blue ceramic planter, the same scuffed doormat. I half expect to see my suitcase on the stoop, a silent reminder of the boundaries I once set for myself.
The silence in the car is so thick I could eat it. Ivy, who’s usually a fountain of words, has gone quiet in the back seat.
Saint kills the engine. The headlights die, leaving us in the dark, the only light coming from the porch. It’s a blue dusk, the color of Saint’s eyes in a storm.
