Page 94 of Only Mine
“Why don’t you come by the restaurant tonight?” The words tumble out before I can catch them. “For dinner.”
Wrenley’s eyes return to mine, wary and uncertain.
“Please, Miss Wrenley?” Ivy abandons her nature hunt to tug at Wrenley’s heart. “Papa makes the best pasta on Thursdays.”
“It’s just dinner,” I add, trying to keep my voice casual when there’s nothing casual about this invitation. “No expectations.”
A lie. I have a thousand expectations, most of them involving answers to questions I shouldn’t ask.
“All right,” she says finally, “What time?”
“Seven?” I suggest. “After the early rush.”
Wrenley’s phone buzzes again, drawing my attention to the way her grip tightens around it. Her eyes dart toward the bookstore, then back to me.
“Seven works,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
“Are you sleeping okay?” I ask without thinking. “Your light was on at 3 a.m. last night again.”
Wrenley freezes. “How would you know that?”
Shit. I rub the back of my neck. “Uh, the window of my back office faces the bookstore.”
At her concentrated stare, I add, “I’m usually there until two or three. The kitchen needs cleaning after service, and there’s always paperwork.”
“And you can’t help checking on me?” she asks. I’m relieved when it’s followed by a slight uptick to her mouth.
“I just want you to know you’re safe,” I confess before I can second-guess it. She looks like she needs someone to say it to her.
And mean it.
Ivy looks between us, curiosity blooming on her face.
“Safe,” Wrenley repeats, like she’s testing the word for authenticity. “That’s...” She swallows hard. “Thank you.”
Her simple gratitude ignites a ferocity in my chest usuallyreserved for Ivy. It makes me want to hunt down whoever caused her to be this scared in a cozy small town.
“Miss Wrenley has a cat in her apartment,” Ivy announces, clearly bored with our adult conversation. “Marcus told me. His name is Ralph, and he’s orange.”
“He’s the bookstore cat,” Wrenley clarifies, grateful for the subject change. “I pretty much pay the rent to him, not Marcus.”
“Can I meet him tonight? After dinner?”
“Ivy,” I warn.
“What? You said no rewards for running away. You didn’t say anything about after-dinner visits to cats.”
I fight a smile. My daughter, the lawyer. “We’ll see.”
Wrenley’s phone buzzes yet again. This time, her face drains of all color as she glances at the screen.
“I should go,” she says, her tone deceptively light.
Ivy wraps her arms around Wrenley’s waist one more time. “Don’t forget about dinner!”
“I won’t.” Wrenley extracts herself form Ivy’s grip and backs toward the bookstore. “Promise.”
I watch her retreat, noting how she keeps glancing around, scanning faces, checking corners. She doesn’t turn her back fully until she reaches the bookstore door, and even then, she looks over her shoulder one last time before disappearing inside.
