Page 106 of Only Mine
Three weeks later, I’m professionally lying to myself.
“Just dropping off a book I saw at Cornerstone that I think Ivy will love,” I tell my reflection, applying lipstick I definitely don’t need for a book run.
The same excuse I used yesterday for the apple crumble Noa makes that Saint loves. And Tuesday’s urgent need to return Ivy’s hair ribbon she left at my apartment when she was playing with Ralph.
I’ve propped my phone against the bathroom mirror, recording as I blend concealer over the beard burn Saint left on my neck last night. In his kitchen. Against the Sub-Zero fridge. While Ivy napped upstairs, he whispered filthy promises about what he’d do if we had more time.
“Morning routine in small-town life,” I narrate cheerfully, angling my body to hide the evidence. “Sometimes using a bunch of products to create a ‘natural’ look is just necessary, you know what I mean? God forbid a girl wants to be in her unfiltered filter era.”
The comments are already flooding in.
Girl, WHERE have you been hiding?
That glow, though!
Small town agrees with you, bestie!
Twenty-seven thousand views in six hours. My follower count is climbing steadily back toward two million. Brands are sliding into my DMs with partnership offers I can finally stomach again.
I’m almost back to who I was. Almost.
Except the Wrenley from before didn’t know what Saint’s hands felt like twisted in her hair. Didn’t time her entire day around stolen moments in walk-in coolers and hidden corners. Didn’t lie awake replaying the sound he makes when he comes, low and hot against my throat.
“It was so great spending time with you guys this morning. Now I’m off to run errands,” I tell my audience, shutting off the camera.
Another lie. I’m off to accidentally run into Saint during the Friday lunch prep lull, when Erin takes Ivy to her music class and we have exactly forty-three minutes to pretend we’re not completely fucked.
My phone buzzes. Brenda.
These numbers are insane! Whatever you’re doing, keep at it. Also cleared my schedule next week. Surprise visit! Can’t wait to see this cute town you’re hiding in.
My stomach drops. Brenda. Here. Where I’ve been carefully cropping Saint out of frame while wearing his shirt. Where the entire town has started referring to me as “Saint’s girl” when they think I’m not listening.
At least the attacker situation was resolved. Turned out to be some sick trolls who’d found police records from the original case, not him. He’s still locked up. Noa had her lawyer best friend trace the IP addresses, and it turned out to be justsome bored teenagers in Denmark getting their kicks from scaring me.
“Pathetic little shits,” Saint had muttered when we found out, but the relief in his eyes was unmistakable.
Now our only danger is self-inflicted. This thing between us that neither of us will name but can’t seem to stop.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I grab Ivy’s book—my flimsy excuse—and head out into the October morning, pretending I’m not counting the minutes until I see him again.
The restaurant is a blast furnace of noise and motion, but Saint’s kitchen exists in its own climate, hyper-focused and hot. I slip through the back, past the dish pit, ignoring the line cook’s knowing smirk.
Saint’s at the pass, orchestrating with his usual economy of motion, but I can tell he’s noticed me before I even clear the walk-in. There’s a shift in his stance, a barely perceptible roll of his tattooed forearm as he wipes down a plate edge, and then he’s nodding at Eddie to cover the line.
He stalks toward me, apron low on his hips, and the sheer focus on his face makes my pulse skitter. I barely have time to brandish the book and say, “I brought the new Bear and Bean—” before he’s in my space, crowding me back into the walk-in, the door hissing shut behind us with a pneumatic exhale.
“You’re late.” He crowds me against a rack of parbaked tart shells. “I don’t tolerate tardiness from anyone.”
“It’s 11:07,” I say, but my voice is already shot.
He kisses me so hard my skull thunks against the metal. Cold air hits my legs as he hikes my skirt up to my hips, pushing his thigh between mine while his tongue fucks my mouth like he owns the air I breathe.
I don’t even get a warning before he breaks the kiss, andSaint pins my wrists above my head, the metal shelf’s edge digging into my spine. “Seven minutes late.”
My body turns traitor so fast that I drop the book. “You’re being dramatic.”
