Page 56 of Only Mine
“Why? Because it’s not peanut butter and bananas?”
He almost smiles again.
“It’s perfect,” I say, feeling the warmth of the wine, the food, his attention.
Saint’s shoulders relax as if my reaction has lifted a weight. “I’ll remember that.”
He refills my glass, his fingers grazing mine against the stem, lingering this time. “Ivy’s happy with you.”
I look down at my plate, at the delicate arrangement of flavors and colors. “She’s not the only one.”
The wine is crisp, cutting through the rich flavors of the salmon. And Saint still won’t take his eyes off me.
I feel like I’m the one who’s been cured with sweetness and ready to melt on his tongue.
“Is this a one-time thing?” I ask, my voice tentative. “Or will you be experimenting more?”
He lifts the wineglass to his lips, fully aware of my double meaning. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you want to stay.”
My heart skips. No, it doesn’t just skip. It lurches sideways, cramming itself against my ribs like it’s trying to escape through a space in its cage of bone.
“Ivy wants me to,” I say softly. “But I don’t know if?—”
“If I want you to?” Saint finishes for me, his voice gruffer than before. “I told you. Ivy’s attached.”
I pick at the edge of the salmon, the fork trembling slightly in my hand. “And you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves around the island. I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with wine and lemon. He’s close enough that I notice how his jaw shadows his neck.
“I’m attached,” he finally says. “Too much. Too fast.”
The air turns thick as honey in my lungs. I stop knowing how to breathe because breathing means accepting this is real and not a dream.
“You didn’t seem attached three nights ago.”
“Because I panicked.” He cups my chin, forcing me to stay on his eyes. “You’re not a mistake, Wrenley.”
The knot in my chest loosens, just a little.
Saint releases my chin, his fingers trailing down my neck before stroking a loose strand of hair back from my face. “But I’m not sure I can be what you need.”
A chill creeps in, and I reach for my wine, needing something to hold on to to keep my hands busy.
Saint’s voice is firm, but edged with hesitation. “I’m not easy. And I’ve already put you through too much.”
“So is this you trying to protect me?”
The familiar sting of rejection pierces my stomach.
“Trying not to fuck it up,” he corrects. “I don’t want to hurt you, Wrenley.”
He already has. But I don’t say it. I can’t, because saying it allowed means admitting I’ve already let him in enough to draw blood from my heart.
“Then don’t fuck it up,” I say instead, reaching for him, my fingers brushing his bare forearm. “I want to stay, Saint.”
