Page 26 of Only Mine
“Does Ivy like it here?” I ask quickly, shifting my arm just enough to pull my sleeve back down. “The restaurant, I mean. Does she hang out in the kitchen?”
His attention snaps back to my face, the momentary curiosity replaced by his usual guarded expression. “Sometimes. When she has to.” He presses the bandage firmly onto my skin. “She prefers the pastry station. Sugar.”
“Ah, a girl after my own heart.”
He finishes applying the bandages, his movements efficient and impersonal again. Saint rises, tossing the used cloth and wrappers into a small bin. “All done. Try to stay out of the shrubbery.”
“No promises.” I stand, flexing my fingers.
He leans back against his desk, crossing his arms again, studying me. It’s an assessment that makes me feel like a particularly foreign ingredient he’s trying to figure out.
“Thanks. For the first aid.”
He shrugs. “Just needed you to be functional for Ivy.”
“Right. Ivy.” The reason I’m here. The reason he tolerates my presence. “Speaking of, her teacher seemed ... territorial this morning.”
Saint goes still. “Miss Erin is dedicated.”
“Dedicated enough to imply I was disrupting Ivy’s carefully curated emotional regulation with a mermaid braid and a shark song?”
“Erin cares about Ivy.”
“I care about Ivy, too,” I say softly. “She hugged me goodbye like she was afraid I wouldn’t come back.”
A muscle jumps in Saint’s cheek. He glances away, toward the small window overlooking a back alley. “Ivy gets attached easily.”
“Or maybe she just needs someone who doesn’t treat her like a porcelain doll about to shatter.”
The words are out before I can stop them. I suck in a horrified breath.Whydid I say that?
His head snaps back toward me, his eyes flashing. “You know nothing about what Ivy needs.”
“I know she laughed today,” I counter nervously, but hold his gaze. “Really laughed. Toothpaste foam and all.”
He says nothing, just stares, the silence stretching between us, thick and hot.
“Are you hungry?” he finally asks, the change of subject abrupt.
“What?”
“Lunch. You’re pale. You look like you need to eat.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command steeped in reluctant hospitality.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” I hedge, thrown off-balance again.
“Too late.”
He walks past me, out of the office, and back toward the controlled chaos of the kitchen. “Keep up.”
I hesitate for only a second before following him, drawn back into the orbit of this complicated, compelling man who seems determined to keep me at arm’s length while simultaneously pulling me closer.
I trail him like a lost duckling, navigating around chefs carrying hot pans and stacks of plates. The kitchen hums with a focused energy, a symphony of sizzling, chopping, and quiet commands. Several pairs of eyes flick toward me, curious but quickly returning to their tasks under Saint’s implicit command. Nobody speaks to me. Nobody needs to. His presence dictates the mood.
He stops at a small stainless steel counter near a prep station piled high with vibrant microgreens and edible flowers. He pulls over a tall stool. “Here.”
I slide onto it, feeling ridiculously out of place amid the professional ballet. My simple jeans and T-shirt feel like a costume compared to their crisp whites.
