Page 18 of Only Mine
“I noticed,” I say dryly, then, before I can rethink it, decide to rescue him. “I could watch her. Just for today, until you can figure something out.”
His head snaps up, eyes growing small with suspicion. “Why would you offer to do such a thing?”
Because your daughter sees rainbow unicorn farts and I haven’t laughed like that in months. Because I recognize the drowning look in your eyes. Because maybe helping someone else will stop me from picking at my own wounds for a few hours. Because after spending three years of my life teaching strangers how to contour their noses, it feels weirdly good to do something that matters to an actual human being.
“Because I have nowhere else to be today,” I say instead. “And Ivy’s fun.”
“I am very fun,” Ivy agrees solemnly.
Saint studies me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decode a particularly difficult recipe. “You have experience with kids?”
“Camp counselor,” I remind him, sticking to my half-truth. “For kindergartners.”
His phone buzzes again. He ignores it, still watching me. Ihope I’m not exuding the tingles cascading across my skin as obviously as I think I am.
“One day,” he says finally. “Just until I can make other arrangements.”
“One day,” I agree.
“Fair warning, Ivy’s ... energetic.”
That’s like describing a tornado as “a bit breezy.”
“I noticed,” I say dryly.
“And creative,” he adds, with a pointed glance at the kitchen disaster.
“Also noticed.”
He nods once, briskly, then downs the rest of his coffee. “I’ll pay you, of course.”
“That’s not?—”
“I insist.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
“Fine.”
“There’s a list of emergency numbers on the fridge. My cell is at the top.”
“Got it.”
“No paint in the house,” he adds. “No unicorn farts on any surfaces, including my car.”
So cars are off-limits, but demon pancakes are apparently fine. Noted.
Ivy bounces in her chair, vibrating with excitement. “Can we make slime? And finish our rocks? And?—”
“Ivy,” Saint cuts her off, but his voice has softened slightly. “Go get dressed first.”
She slides off her chair with a dramatic sigh that seems to come from the depths of her soul, then races from the room, her footsteps thundering on the stairs.
When she’s gone, Saint turns back to me.
“I meant to say…” he stops, seeming to struggle with the words. “Thank you. For this morning. For watching her.”
The begrudging gratitude makes me smile. “Go save your restaurant, Chef. We’ll be fine.”
He nods again, but hesitates at the doorway, looking back at me with an unreadable expression. “Celeste trusts you.”
