2. Saint
TWO
SAINT
T he rain hasn’t stopped. Ivy’s wet footprints are all over the foyer when I lock the door behind us and send her upstairs with a towel and my sharpest voice.
She doesn’t flinch. She just looks at me like I missed something obvious.
“Miss Nora said she’s quitting,” Ivy announces casually as if informing me we’re out of milk.
I freeze. “What?”
“She didn’t like my unicorn mural.”
I stare at her. “What unicorn mural?”
“The one I painted on her car. With the special paints from the art cabinet.” Water drips from her pigtails as she gives me a defiant look.
Jesus Christ. Third nanny in six months that will walk, and this one will probably sue me for property damage. Just fucking wonderful.
“She’s nice, Papa,” Ivy says. Water drips from her pigtails.
“Who? Nora? ”
“No, Miss Wrenley.”
“Upstairs. Now.” I point to emphasize the command, but my daughter just sighs, a sound far too world-weary for her five years.
“She needs to eat too, Daddy.” Ivy’s voice carries that stubborn note I recognize from the mirror. “And you always make too much anyway.”
I glare at the ceiling. Fucking Celeste.
My phone buzzes with a voicemail from Nora I missed while dealing with our unexpected guest. I put it to my ear, if only to end the conversation with Ivy before she wins.
“Mr. Toussaint, I cannot and will not continue in this position. Your daughter has deliberately destroyed my vehicle with what appears to be industrial-grade paint. This goes beyond creative expression. I’ve contacted my insurance and will be in touch regarding damages.
The psychological evaluation I suggested last month might be worth reconsidering. ”
I delete the message, picturing Nora’s pristine white Honda now decorated with sparkling unicorns. Ivy’s artistic talent is undeniable. Her impulse control, however...
“Go change,” I order Ivy. “Now.”
Ivy trudges upstairs, leaving twin trails of water behind her.
After wiping them up, I stalk back to the kitchen where my ruined coq au vin simmers, abandoned mid-stir. The sauce has separated, the chicken likely overcooked. Goddamn Celeste and her meddling. There was a time when I’d have sooner cut off my own finger than let a sauce break.
I grab my phone and stab at her contact, listening to it ring while I pull ingredients from the fridge. Butter. Shallots. Mushrooms. The knife hits the cutting board with satisfying precision as I dice the shallots into perfect, identical pieces.
Straight to voicemail .
“Celeste, call me back. Now. You can’t just install random women in my guesthouse without?—”
A text interrupts my message.
It’s for your own good. She needs this. So do you.
I toss my phone onto the counter, nearly burning my forearm on the cast iron. “Fuck!”
After snatching a towel from the drawer and wiping my hands, I take three deep breaths.
Dinner is salvageable. Barely. I whisk in cold butter, watching the sauce come back together, glossy and rich. My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from thousands of dinner services.
While I’m whisking, Ivy pads into the kitchen and straightens her place settings. Noticing, I turn and grab three plates from the cupboard to finish it, then pause, staring at my hands.
Why am I using the good plates? I only keep them for?—
No one. I don’t keep them for anyone these days.
The last time I cooked for someone besides Ivy and Celeste was one year ago. Some investor wanted to discuss reopening my Paris location. I sent him home with a signed NDA and a firm no.
Now there’s a stranger in my guesthouse. A beautiful stranger with rain-soaked clothes and bright hazel eyes that seared right through me.
I’m not blind. I noticed her even while pissed off. Tall, curves in all the right places, that streak of pink in her blond hair almost the same shade as the peaks of her nipples showing through her damp white shirt…
Nope. Not going there.
Cloth napkins. Wineglass for me, water glasses for all. I catch myself polishing a water spot off Wrenley’s glass and swear under my breath .
Through the window above the sink, I spot a glimpse of movement at the guesthouse. She’s changed into dry clothes, a loose cream sweater that slips off one shoulder as she peers out at the rain. Even from here, I can trace the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone.
My body reacts before my brain can shut it down.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, turning away before she can spot me .
This woman is trouble.
Tomorrow morning, she’s gone. I’ll help her pack if I have to. I don’t care what Celeste thinks we “need.” I don’t need a house guest with eyes the color of a perfect autumn day and a body that reminds me of everything I’ve sworn off.
The clock reads 6:48. Ivy’s bare feet slap against the hardwood as she races around. I turn, ready to scold her for not wearing socks, but the words die in my throat.
At some point between my whisking and now, she’s changed into her “fancy” dress, the one with the tulle skirt she insisted on for her school picture. Her damp hair is out of her pigtails and brushed, and she’s even attempted a crooked bow on the side.
The sight hits me like a sucker punch.
“Do I look pretty, Papa?” She twirls, the dress flaring around her knees.
“You look beautiful, mon trésor .” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “But why…?”
“For dinner with Miss Wrenley!” She gives me an indulgent smile like I’m the slow one here. “It’s a special ‘casion.”
Guilt sits in my stomach like a rock. One year since we’ve had anyone over. Twelve months of just the two of us sitting down for dinner.
“Papa, can I set out the candles, too?”
“No candles.” I clear my throat. “Go wash your hands. ”
I plate the chicken, arranging it with the precision that once earned me Michelin stars. The sauce pools perfectly against the roasted fingerling potatoes. A sprinkle of fresh thyme. It’s muscle memory, not effort.
“Papa, is it time yet?” Ivy yells from the powder room in the hallway.
“Almost.” I check the plating one last time. “Did you wash your hands?”
She returns to the kitchen holding her hands up and showing off clean palms.
“Is Miss Wrenley going to sit next to me or you?” she asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes! I want to show her my bracelet and tell her about my book and introduce her to Mr. Pawsome and?—”
There’s a knock on the door to our back porch at exactly 7:00.
Merde. Of course she would be punctual. I was hoping she might chicken out.
Before I can stop her, Ivy bolts for the door, her tulle skirt flouncing. I take a steadying breath, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, and follow at a more measured pace.
“I wore my fancy dress!” Ivy exclaims as a greeting. Her voice climbs an octave as she swings open the door.
“You look stunning,” I hear Wrenley reply as I round the corner. “That’s the prettiest dress I’ve seen in ages.”
Ivy preens, twirling again while Wrenley crouches down to my daughter’s level.
“Papa made chicken. It’s the best chicken in the whole world. He cooks it in restaurants.”
I gesture vaguely behind me. “Dinner’s ready.”
Wrenley straightens, finally meeting my eyes. “Thank you for the invitation. It smells amazing.”
A cream sweater hangs loose on her frame, slipping off one shoulder to reveal skin that looks impossibly soft. Her damp hair is pulled back in a messy knot, and without the rain plastering everything to her skin, she looks ... different. Softer. Flawless.
“It wasn’t an invitation,” I say, and it comes out like an accusation. “It was Ivy’s idea.”
An emotion close to hurt ripples across Wrenley’s face, but she covers it with a smile. “Well, I appreciate it all the same.”
Ivy grabs Wrenley’s hand and pulls her toward the kitchen. “You can sit by me. Come on!”
I catch Wrenley’s eye again as she’s dragged past me.
“She’s … enthusiastic this evening,” I say as an explanation.
“I can see that.” A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “Must be genetic.”
I scoff.
In the kitchen, Ivy positions Wrenley at the place setting at the end of the island, then climbs onto her own chair between us. I serve the plates with practiced efficiency.
“Wow,” Wrenley breathes when I set her plate down. Her eyes widen, genuine appreciation washing over her face. “This looks like artwork.”
“It’s just dinner.”
I pour myself a glass of burgundy before taking my seat, then notice where Wrenley’s attention has gone.
“Are you old enough to drink?” I ask her.
She laughs softly. “I’m twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-five in November,” she adds almost defensively.
Wrenley picks up her fork, then hesitates. “This really does look incredible.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet.”
I take a sip of wine, studying her over the rim of my glass. Young. Too young. But I find her a separate wineglass regardless. With the way she was drooling over mine and the night she’s had, I’d say she needs it.
“Thank you,” she says when I set a full glass in front of her.
“You’re lucky. Papa doesn’t share his wine,” Ivy informs her while digging into her food. “He says it’s older than dinosaurs.”
I shoot Ivy a look. “Expensive. I said expensive.”
Wrenley takes her first bite and closes her eyes. The small sound she makes hits me right in the gut. It’s a noise of pure pleasure that belongs in my bedroom, not my kitchen.
“Oh my god,” she murmurs.
I nod curtly, ignoring the unwelcome heat that spreads through me at her reaction.
Most people respond to my food this way.
It doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been praised by critics worldwide, won awards, built an empire on my cooking.
But there’s something about the genuine surprise on her face that hits differently.
“Told you,” Ivy says to her through a mouthful. “Sometimes people cry when they eat Papa’s food.”
“I believe it.” Wrenley takes another bite, savoring it with the same quiet reverence. “I might cry myself.”
“Please don’t.” I take a long sip of wine.