4. Wrenley
FOUR
WRENLEY
S aint’s morning routine for Ivy involves seventeen steps, two checklists, and enough diligence to launch a space shuttle, all of which he explained to me in a rapid-fire text message that arrived precisely one minute after he left.
I’m relieved when Ivy chooses a simple purple dress, leggings, and none of the meltdowns the mom influencers I networked with often posted about.
“Time to brush your teeth and hair,” I tell her, guiding her out of a room full of rainbows and into a marble bathroom.
“Papa makes me brush for exactly two minutes with the timer,” Ivy informs me as she steps onto the footstool in front of the sink. She points at an old kitchen timer standing sentry to the right of the sink.
I stare at it, then pull out my phone. “Let’s try something different today. We’ll use a special tooth-brushing playlist.”
Ivy’s cheeks plump with a huge smile. “Really? Do I get to choose the song?”
“Sure. What are you thinking? ”
“Baby Shark!” She bounces on her toes, and I struggle not to laugh at the earnestness in her small face.
“Perfect choice. Let me find it.” I tap through my phone, locating the song that’s haunted parents since its inception. “Ready?”
Ivy grabs her toothbrush, nodding as I press play.
What follows is two minutes and seventeen seconds of Ivy dancing while brushing, toothpaste foam occasionally escaping as she mimics shark movements with her free arm. I find myself swaying along, making exaggerated chomping motions that send her into giggles.
“Again!” she demands when the song ends.
“Nope, one song is perfect. Look at those sparkly teeth!” I hand her a small cup of water. “Rinse and spit, shark girl.”
“Papa never lets me listen to music while brushing,” Ivy confides after her spit misses the sink entirely.
“Well, your papa seems like he has lots of good systems in place,” I say carefully. “But sometimes it’s fun to try new things, right?”
She takes my hand when I help her down from the footstool. “I’m gonna make him play that song every time I brush my teeth now.”
I cringe. Oops.
“Awesome. He’ll love it.”
For hair, I abandon Saint’s detailed instructions about sectioning and detangler application.
Instead, I position Ivy by the window where natural light streams in, because perfect lighting is second nature to me now, and demonstrate the “mermaid braid” I used in a tutorial that got over two million views.
She twirls, admiring her reflection.
“I bet you’ll be the only mermaid in class today,” I say.
“Really? ”
“One hundred percent. Let’s not be late, though. Your papa said we need to take his car today.”
“Because my car seat is there,” Ivy explains, skipping down the stairs with her mermaid braid swinging. “It’s super complicated. Miss Nora always complained about it.”
The keys Saint left on the counter feel unnaturally heavy in my palm.
Probably because they’re not just keys to a vehicle, they’re the gateway to a $100,000 Range Rover Autobiography with custom everything, according to the text he sent with detailed operating instructions.
The thing looks like it could transport the president through a war zone while serving champagne.
“Okay, backpack check,” I kneel to Ivy’s level in the foyer. “Lunch?”
“Check!” She points at the bento box peeking from her rainbow bag.
“Water bottle?”
“Check!”
“Folder for school papers?”
She hesitates. “Oops.”
“Go grab it, quick like a bunny.”
While she scampers off, I review Saint’s car instructions again. The man sent a literal essay titled Vehicle Operation Protocols.
Who does that?
Saint does. That’s who.
Outside, the black SUV gleams in the driveway like it’s just gotten back from a car wash. Hell, it probably drove itself there this morning.
Ivy returns with her folder. We veer into the guesthouse so I can quickly change into jeans and a cropped tee, then head to the car .
“Let’s go, shall we?” I lead Ivy down the driveway, keeping my grip on her small hand steady.
“Our car talks sometimes,” Ivy informs me. “And it has stars in the ceiling.”
“Fun,” I say. “It probably makes your dad coffee and gives stock tips, too.”
I press the key fob, and the Range Rover chirps a greeting that sounds like money. The door handles glide out from their flush position.
“ Very fancy,” I say to myself as we approach the rear. “Hop on in.”
I almost recoil when I spot what’s in the back. Ivy’s car seat resembles a miniature throne with more straps and buckles than a straight-jacket.
“Miss Nora said bad words every time she had to put me in,” Ivy confides, climbing up into her seat.
“I can see why.” I study the contraption, trying to match it with step fourteen of Saint’s text tutorial. “This thing looks like it could survive re-entry from space.”
Five minutes later, I’m still wrestling with a harness that could secure a bull rider.
“Is it supposed to have this many ... everything?” I say more to myself, tugging at a strap that seems to have no beginning or end.
“Papa says it’s the safest one in the world,” Ivy says proudly, wiggling in her half-buckled throne.
“Of course it is.” I blow a strand of hair from my face. “Your papa probably had it custom-made by a supervillain.”
The buckle clicks, then immediately unclicks when Ivy shifts.
“Sorry.” She giggles.
My nails find their way to my left shoulder before I can stop myself. Not now. I force my hands back to the car seat, hyperaware of my hyper frustration.
“Stop squirming, sweetie.”
My voice comes out sharper than intended.
Ivy freezes, her little face falling. “Miss Nora used to yell, too.”
My heart cracks.
“I’d never yell at you, sweetheart. I’m just learning.” I soften my tone, despite the sweat now forming at my hairline. “Maybe you can help me?”
Her face brightens.
“This part goes click,” she points, “and then this part goes swoosh.”
I follow her instructions, managing to secure one side before the other releases.
“For the love of —” I catch myself, forcing a bright smile. “For the love of learning new things.”
A woman pushing a stroller slows as she passes the gate at the end of the driveway, openly staring through the iron bars at my struggle. She lingers, clearly hoping to witness a full meltdown. I turn my back to her, focusing on Ivy.
“Let’s try one more time,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow. My fingernails itch to dig into my shoulder, the familiar comfort beckoning.
“You have to press the red button while pulling the strap,” Ivy explains, her little finger pointing at a nearly invisible button.
“Oh!” I exclaim, finally seeing what I’d missed. The secret button is practically invisible against the black fabric. “Why would they hide the most important part?”
I press the tiny red button while pulling the strap, and suddenly everything clicks into place. Literally. The harness tightens perfectly around Ivy’s small frame .
“You did it!” Ivy claps her hands.
“We did it,” I correct her with a big smile.
The woman with the stroller is still watching. She gives me a smug little smile before continuing her walk.
“Is it too tight?” I ask Ivy, ignoring my wounded pride.
“Nope! Perfect!”
She beams up at me, and I have to say, being the recipient of a five-year-old’s praise is so much better than 100,000 likes.
When I close her door and circle to the driver’s side, I catch my reflection.
My pink streak sticks out at odd angles, there’s a black smudge of mascara on my cheek, and my whole face is flushed.
In my former life, I’d never have let anyone see me like this, with my hair frazzled, makeup smeared, and the frustration evident on my face.
My followers had expected perfection, even when I was demonstrating “relatable struggles.” The old Wrenley would have recorded seventeen takes before showing herself struggling with something this basic.
Well, Old Wrenley can’t come to the phone anymore.
I stick my tongue out at my reflection, which Ivy catches. She copies me, and before I know it, we’re in a full-on raspberry-blowing war.
I slide into the driver’s seat, laughing, and nearly gasp at the dashboard that looks like a fighter jet control panel.
“Holy sh...” I catch myself. “Holy moly. Okay, now to find the ignition…”
“Voice acti-vaytion,” Ivy pipes up from the back. “Papa says ‘Start engine,’ and it listens.”
I clear my throat. “Start engine?”
Nothing happens.
“Maybe it doesn’t like me,” I say.
Ivy giggles. “You have to press the button on the steering wheel first. ”
“Right. Obviously.” I locate a small button with a microphone icon. “Start engine.”
The Range Rover purrs to life, dashboard lighting up like a Christmas tree.
“Now you say ‘navigate to Little Acorns Elementary,’“ Ivy instructs.
I follow her lead, and the navigation system displays our route on a screen that looks bigger than my first TV.
“You’re really good at this,” I tell Ivy as we back down the driveway.
“I’ve done it a lot.”
She doesn’t say it with a big, proud smile. Ivy stares out her window, her expression somber, and I wonder just how many nannies she’s gone through since her mother passed.
And how many she became attached to who ended up leaving her.
It’ll take twelve minutes exactly to get to the school, so I decide to distract Ivy by asking her to tell me everything she knows about Falcon Haven and all her favorite spots.
She perks up immediately, pointing out landmarks like the bookstore with the cat in the window, the ice cream shop that serves sprinkles shaped like dinosaurs, and the colorful public playground.
At the school drop-off line, I follow the procession of minivans and SUVs considerably less opulent than our ride.
When I pull up, a woman in a yellow safety vest waves us forward with the skills of an air traffic controller.
I park where indicated and help Ivy out of her fortress, which takes approximately half the time of putting her in. Progress.
Another woman in a floral dress and sensible shoes comes up to us as I’m straightening Ivy’s dress. Her smile is professional, but her eyes are curious.
“Good morning, Ivy!” Her voice carries the extra cheer of someone who spends her days with five-year-olds. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Miss Erin, Ivy’s teacher.”
“Wrenley.” I extend my hand while using the other to subtly tug on the hem of my shirt to cover my belly button. There’s something about being faced with a perfectly put-together woman when you’re in loungewear. “Ivy’s, uh, babysitter for the day.”
“Saint didn’t mention a personnel change.” Her gaze skims over my pink streak, then down to my scuffed, used-to-be-white Chucks. “Not that he needs to, of course. We just have an open communication policy when it comes to Ivy.”
The way she says we makes my belly button pull back into my spine. Erin doesn’t use a possessive tone, and she’s not being inappropriate with me, but it’s just... familiar. Like she’s letting me know that I’m a part of something I’m not invited into.
I glance around, wondering if I accidentally dropped Ivy off at a high school with all its drama, instead.
“This was a last-minute thing,” I say, bringing my focus back to Ivy, who skips ahead. “She’s been great.”
Erin nods but stares pointedly at Ivy’s swinging braid. “Ivy usually wears her hair in a simple ponytail. She does better without the visual stimulation.”
I blink. “Oh. She asked for it. I thought it’d be fun.”
“Of course.” She gives me another smile, a little sharper. “But children also need guardrails. Especially after… everything.”
Especially after everything.
That’s the line that hooks behind my ribs. Not because Erin’s wrong, but because it’s the kind of truth that makes me feel immediately unqualified to even exist near someone like Ivy .
“It can be hard when you’re unfamiliar with a child’s triggers.”
I stiffen.
She tilts her head like a well-meaning hospice nurse. “If you need help, I can walk you through what we’ve been doing. Ivy can be a lot for people who aren’t trained.”
My throat goes dry. I’m itching to tug at the edge of my shirt, at the skin beneath.
“Thank you,” I say because it’s all I can manage.
“We’re just all protective of her. That’s all.” Erin gives a final smile that lands like a pat on the head. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Sure.”
“Well, it was lovely meeting you.” Miss Erin checks her watch. “Time to line up, Ivy! The bell’s about to ring.”
Ivy does a complete U-turn without breaking her stride, then flings her arms around my waist in a surprise hug that knocks the air from my lungs. “Bye, Miss Wrenley!”
She doesn’t let go, clinging to my waist a moment longer than necessary.
“I’ll be here at pickup time,” I assure her, squeezing her shoulders, and her hold loosens. “Front of the line, two thirty sharp.”
Her face brightens as she spins and skips away to join the other kindergartners. Miss Erin lingers.
I pull out my phone. “I should let Saint know Ivy’s settled.”
“No need,” Erin says. “I’ll let him know everything went smoothly. Saint appreciates thorough updates. I know what he likes to read.”
I frown at her back as she saunters away but manage to tap out a quick message before she can sink her claws into Saint .
Ivy dropped off. Mermaid braid was a hit. No apocalypse occurred.
I return to the driver’s seat and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, taking some deep breaths before I drive off.
I’d prepared myself for a change of routine when coming to Falcon Haven, but this morning’s activities have skewed my predictions of what to expect so much that they’re not even on the scale anymore.
Don’t scratch. Don’t pull. Just breathe.
Ivy’s teacher clearly has a thing for Saint. Her territorial vibe was unmistakable, like a cat marking its territory with strategically placed urine. I don’t blame her, though. Saint is insanely attractive in that brooding, tattooed chef way that makes women swoon.
And he’s rich.
And he’s a devoted father.
And he’s tortured.
And he’s my temporary boss.
Who thinks I’m a squatter on his property.
Shit. Seven more hours to go, and I’m already in way too deep.