Page 71 of Only Mine
The drive home is quiet except for Ivy’s soft snores. I sneak glances at Saint, catching him doing the same. His hands grip the steering wheel a lot like they did coming here, the tendons of his forearms standing out.
“That thing you said,” I whisper. “About not being able to stop thinking about me.”
“Not now.” His voice is strained. “Please. Not with her in the car.”
I bite my lip, then turn to watch the landscape blur past. My body still feels electrified from every touch, every loaded look. The space between us in the car feels vast and microscopic at the same time.
When we pull into his driveway, the sun is starting to set.Saint carries Ivy inside while I trail behind, unsure of my place in this domestic scene.
“Bath first,” he says, starting up the stairs. “She smells like horse.”
“I can do it,” I offer. “If you want to start dinner.”
“Wrenley.” He pauses on the landing. Ivy is dead weight in his arms. “After she’s asleep, we need to talk.”
The promise—or threat—of that conversation makes my stomach flip.
“Okay,” I breathe.
He disappears into Ivy’s room, and I lean against the wall, trying to steady my racing heart. Tonight. After weeks of tension, of almosts and not-quites, something’s finally going to break.
I just don’t know if it’ll be us coming together or falling apart.
SIXTEEN
WRENLEY
The guesthouse door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like finality.
I lean against it, chest heaving like I’ve run a marathon instead of just tucking in a five-year-old. Ivy had requested three stories after somehow becoming re-energized in the bathtub, her little fingers playing with my hair as I read about brave unicorns and midnight adventures. She’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, one hand clutching my wrist.
“Don’t go,” she’d mumbled in her sleep.
Now, in the quiet of my temporary home, those words resonate.
My riding clothes smell like hay and horse and Saint’s cologne from when he’d steadied me. I should shower. I should pack. Miss Erin starts the day after tomorrow, and I need to be ready to leave.
Instead, I stand frozen, replaying every one of Saint’s looks, every touch that lingered on my skin.
“After she’s asleep, we need to talk.”
Once I’m showered and changed, I check my phone. It’sbeen thirty minutes since I left the main house. Is that enough time? Too much? God, why am I analyzing this like a teenager?
A knock makes me jump. Three short raps that somehow sound decisive and uncertain at once.
My heart’s in my throat as I open the door.
Saint stands on my small porch, hands shoved in his pockets. He’s changed out of the ranch clothes, back in dark jeans and a Henley that clings in all the right places. No more cowboy hat, but my body remembers exactly how he looked wearing it.
“Hi,” I breathe.
“Can I come in?”
I step aside wordlessly. He enters, bringing that dangerous energy that’s been simmering between us all day. The guesthouse suddenly feels impossibly small.
“You wanted to talk,” I prompt when he just stands there, tension radiating from every line of his body. “I know you probably don’t want to leave Ivy alone too long, so…?”
“That’s not what I want.” His voice is curt, honest. Saint pulls his phone from his back pocket and shows me the image of Ivy sleeping peacefully in bed. “And I’m monitoring her, so we don’t need to rush.”
