Page 32 of Only Mine
The dismissal is absolute.
I back away slowly, retreating down the stairs with the image of his tortured expression seared into my mind. The front door feels miles away.
Back in the suffocating quiet of the guesthouse, the carefully constructed walls I maintain around my own pain crumble.
The shaking starts in my hands, spreading up my arms.
Saint’s reaction, the utter agony ... it triggered that darkness deep inside me.
That familiar, ugly urge claws its way up my throat.
My fingers find my scalp, twisting strands of hair around them, pulling until the sharp sting offers a sweet release.
It’s not enough.
My nails dig into the skin of my shoulder, scraping over the old scars, seeking the sharp, grounding pain that momentarily drowns out the noise in my head.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But the air won’t come, trapped behind the frantic rhythm of my heart.
A silent scream builds inside me, a pressure cooker with no escape valve, except for the one I inflict upon myself.
SEVEN
SAINT
The smell of burning rubber and gasoline clings to the edges of my consciousness, a phantom scent that jolted me awake long before the weak dawn light.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the image of my mangled car replaying behind my eyelids.
My wife.
Not the SUV Wrenley managed to dent, but Celine’s little blue Fiat, crumpled like a discarded sheet of paper.
The same icy panic I’d felt last night at the sight of the damaged Range Rover swells my throat now, hot and suffocating.
It’s always the same. Any accident, anyhintof one, and I’m back there on that rain-slicked road, the world tilting.
I throw the covers back, the need to move, to do something, overriding my exhaustion. The governor was demanding as expected, his family even more so, but I’ve cooked for many picky eaters, especially the unnecessarily annoying ones, without batting an eye. But the one variable that wasn’t accounted for was my daughter in the arms of avirtual stranger, her safety balanced against Wrenley’s experience, which is slim to none.
Wrenley has Celeste’s blessing, which goes a long way when it comes to my small circle of loyal friends and family, but as anyone who’s experienced a loss knows, there’s no one, absolutelyno one, who can be trusted with the little heart beating outside of my chest aside from me.
Yet I can’t stop working. Because if I stop, I think, and I remember, which is the exact situation I find myself in now.
Coffee. Ivy’s breakfast. Routine. These anchors keep me from drifting completely.
I dress in the near dark in a T-shirt and well-worn jeans, and head for the kitchen deliberately early. I’ll tell Wrenley this morning. Firmly. Her services are no longer required.
Ivy would adjust, of course. She has to. But this revolving door of nannies, this constant, low thrum of disorder Wrenley seemed to drag in with her, is not sustainable.
I need control over my realm, and Wrenley Morgan, with her sad eyes and pink-streaked hair, is a variable I cannot manage.
When I come downstairs to the kitchen, however, it’s not empty.
Wrenley stands at the island, already dressed, earbuds in, humming to a beat only she can hear. She’s in tight yoga pants that fit like a second skin, perfectly outlining an ass so round it could’ve been grown at a peach farm.
I don’t realize I’ve been staring until my eyes burn, and I have to blink. My gaze drags up over the curve of her waist and the gentle sway of her ponytail as she bounces on her toes, completely unaware she’s waking me up in ways my two morning espressos could never.
