Page 154 of Only Mine
“Not if I can help it,” Saint says, using his protective expression on us both.
“Good.” She picks up one of her dolls again.
“And you know what?” I say to her. “You don’t have to call me Miss Wrenley anymore. Just Wrenley is fine.”
Her eyes go wide. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Just Wrenley.” She tests the name out, smiling with her entire face. “I like that better. I’m only allowed to call adults who are family without mister or missus.”
“I like that better, too.”
Saint goes very still, his fingers tightening around his water glass. When I meet his eyes, his expression is careful, but there’s a warmth there. He clears his throat and takes a drink, as if he’s trying not to show too much emotion but failing.
The first course arrives: small plates of seared scallops with pea puree, which makes Ivy scrunch her nose before asking for more. Saint explains each dish as it comes, but I’m only half listening, distracted by the low rumble of his voice and the patient cadence he reserves just for his daughter. I can’t believe that I’m sitting here. That I’m a part of this. It’s like a dream, but I get to live it without filters, ring lights, or heavy editing. I’m not thinking in captions or engagement metrics or how I’ll frame this moment for my audience. I’m just here, present, drinking in the clatter of forks and the way Ivy dips her bread in sauce and how Saint’s attention lingerson me, like he can’t decide if he wants to devour the food or me first.
I’ll always love what I do, but there is something to be said about finding yourself outside of your online persona.
The truth is, I’ve always been good at performing. Not in a fake way. If anything, I’ve built my whole following on being a little too honest and vulnerable. But the idea of fitting into a room like this, where everything is tangible and unscripted, used to terrify me. I never knew how to belong in a place unless I could crop out the awkward parts, mute the noise, or delete the whole experience if it got too uncomfortable.
Here, with Ivy’s voice pinging above everyone else’s in the room and Saint’s hand finding mine under the table and rubbing the inside of my wrist, I don’t want to edit anything out.
I want every minute, every awkward silence, every too loud laugh. I want to watch Ivy eat a bread roll in three bites and listen to Saint complain about the wine list even though he picked it himself.
I want the real version of this life, not the highlight reel.
Saint keeps catching me staring. The first few times, he just quirks an eyebrow, but eventually, he leans in and murmurs against my ear, “You’re making it very hard to focus on the food.”
I flush, which only makes him smirk.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I just?—”
“I know.” He bites his lower lip without breaking our stare, and I nearly soak the chair. “Same.”
Ivy, oblivious to the electrical currents passing between us, pipes up with, “Is it true that if you eat too much bread, you turn into a duck?”
Saint coughs and leans back.
I laugh. “I think if you eat enough bread, you’ll have to waddle home, which is almost the same thing.”
Ivy chews on her bread, then says, “Miss—I mean, Wrenley, do you like it here? Or are you just visiting?”
The words are so blunt and childlike that it takes me a second to realize what she’s really asking. Saint freezes, too, the fork paused halfway to his mouth.
I set my fork down. “I like it here. A lot.”
Ivy doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer. She keeps watching me. Waiting.
I shift in my chair, feeling the heat of Saint’s leg pressed against mine.
“I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to,” I amend.
She considers this, then says, “Papa says nobody stays forever.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Saint’s voice is gentle, but firm.
