Page 57 of Only Mine
He looks at me, really looks, and for a moment, I think I’ve gotten through. That this time he won’t retreat.
Then his expression shifts. “I talked to Erin.”
Air is knocked from my lungs. I shake my head, dislodging the confusion his statement brings. “Miss Erin, from Ivy’s school?”
He nods. “She offered to help with Ivy before and after school while I wait for a permanent replacement.”
A hollow laugh escapes before I can stop it, falling apart inside my chest and rattling against my ribs. “Of course she did.”
Saint’s jaw tightens. “She’s highly qualified. Certified in child development, education, and care. I’d be a fool not to consider it.”
A shard of ice drops into my stomach. Its cold spreads outward until my fingertips go numb around the wineglass.
“Qualified,” I repeat. “Right.”
The exquisite salmon, the shared wine, his admission of being “attached”—it all curdles in my stomach, turning into a bitter, mocking joke. Saint wasn’t asking me to stay. He was… what? Softening the blow? Offering a consolation prize before delivering the final verdict? My hand, still holding the wineglass, trembles so violently I have to set it down before I drop it. The delicate clink against the stone countertop sounds unnaturally loud in the sudden, suffocating silence.
“She’s good with Ivy,” Saint continues, his gaze steady, oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, to the devastation he’s just wrought. “She understands her needs from a professional standpoint.”
Consistency. Professional. Qualified.
He’s choosing the sensible option, the one that makes sense on paper, the one that doesn’t involve messy emotions or women with questionable pasts and pink-streaked hair. He’s choosing Erin. The man who just admitted he was attached to me, who kissed me senseless by the fire, is now calmly explaining why another woman is a better fit.
I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t let him see how thoroughly his words have gutted me.
“So when is Erin taking over?” I ask through a thickening throat.
Saint frowns, a crease appearing between his brows. “Not taking over. I thought it would free you up as well. You didn’t come to this town to be a nanny. I essentially blackmailed you into it so you’d have a place to stay while you figured out other lodging.”
Saint’s being reasonable and logical. He’s offering a solution to a problem he thinks I have. He doesn’t see thatheis the problem. Or rather, my stupid, persistent feelings for him are. And for his daughter.
“Erin, with her degrees and her professional standpoint, is a much better long-term investment than the flighty influencer who dents your cars and has meltdowns during thunderstorms.”
My voice is dangerously quiet, each word carefully enunciated to mask the tremor threatening to break through. He’s not offering me an out. He’s showing me the door, albeit politely, with a side of cured salmon.
Saint’s expression darkens, a shadow of confusion obscuring his features.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, it’s fine,” I interrupt, pushing back from the island, the beautiful plate of food suddenly nauseating. “It makes perfect sense. Ivy needs stability. Someone reliable.”
“Wrenley.”
“You don’t need to explain.” I force a brittle smile. “You’re right. I didn’t come here to be a nanny. And it’s good that Erin stepped up.”
I need to get out of here before he sees the cracks. Yes, he’s offering me my original wish on a silver platter, but why does it feel like a severance package?
Saint’s giving me the freedom I thought I wanted, but taking away the one thing—the two people—who had begun to make that freedom feel less like a vast, empty expanse and more like a space I could actually inhabit.
“Next week, it’s off the table, then?” I manage to ask.
I accidentally meet his stare and notice a flash of emotion in his eyes. I hope to god it’s not pity. “Erin can start Monday.”
Nodding, I say, “I’ll be out by tomorrow morning. Just please, let me say goodbye to Ivy.”
Saint’s expression falls. “Of course.”
My feet move, carrying me toward the back door to theguesthouse, the only sanctuary I have left, however temporary. Each step is a monumental effort, like wading through concrete.
