Page 55 of Only Mine
“Let her,” Saint says, his voice softer than I expect. “It’ll keep her from painting the walls inside.”
“Smart man,” I reply, tucking my hair behind my ear. My fingers itch to tug. “Well, since you’re home, I’ll get out of your way.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “Are you hungry?”
Saint doesn’t wait for an answer, just crosses to the fridge.
“Saint, you don’t have to?—”
“Sit.” He nods toward the kitchen island.
I hesitate, caught between the urge to flee and the pull ofgetting another amazing meal from him. But the thought of sitting across from Saint, sharing food, sharing space, is terrifying in equal measure.
I take a deep breath and sink into one of the stools.
“I’ve been experimenting with something new. I’d like your opinion.”
Saint’s back is to me, so it’s impossible to read any body language behind his words.
“Sure.” Then, because I’m a glutton for awkward moments, I say, “I’d hate for you to make a mistake.”
His shoulders stiffen. It’s subtle, a small shift, but I see it.
“Wrenley.” My name is a rough exhale. “I didn’t mean…”
“I know.”
I say it quickly before he can finish even though I’m the one who started it.
Saint moves fast, his attention on the ingredients he pulls from the fridge. The kitchen fills with the smell of fresh herbs and something citrusy. He focuses on a container full of something pink, an avocado, and something orange and shiny.
He’s silent again, but this time it’s not the silence of the past three days. It’s a language I’m beginning to understand. Saint cooks when he can’t say what he wants to say.
I watch, captivated as he cuts the pink flesh—salmon—into thin strips. The sight of his inked hands handling something so delicate makes me want to bite my lip and lean closer. He moves with the same attention to detail he had when he’d bandaged my arm. When he’d kissed me by the fire.
When Saint plates the dish, it’s a work of art. Strips of salmon, cured and almost translucent, curl around themselves, nestled beside thin slices of avocado. They’re arranged like a mosaic, and dotted with tiny orange pearls, like caviar.
It’s bright and beautiful, like a sunrise on a plate.
He slides it in front of me, a small, careful offering.
“I’m trying a new cure,” he says. “Passion fruit. Yuzu. Mango. Thought you might like it.”
I pick up a fork, my heart thudding in my chest. The food is vibrant, unexpected, and I know, deep down, that this is more than just a meal.
The flavors burst in my mouth. Sweet, tangy, a hint of salt. It’s exquisite, and even though I should expect it by now, I can’t help the small sound that escapes me.
Saint’s eyes darken, a flicker of molten fire crossing his face. Muscles in his cheeks pop before he blinks once and says, “Wine?”
“Please,” I say, my pulse a quick, uneven beat.
He pours two glasses, the white wine catching the light and flickering against the gleaming countertop. Saint hands one to me, his fingers grazing mine, sending a familiar, frustrating jolt through my system.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice a little shaky, my heart a lot shaky.
He watches me take another bite, the cured salmon melting on my tongue. The tiny pearls of roe pop with a satisfying brininess.
Saint takes a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving my face. He leans against the counter. “I wasn’t sure you’d like it.”
