7. Saint
SEVEN
SAINT
T he smell of burning rubber and gasoline clings to the edges of my consciousness, a phantom scent that jolted me awake long before the weak dawn light.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the image of my mangled car replaying behind my eyelids.
My wife.
Not the SUV Wrenley managed to dent, but Celine’s little blue Fiat, crumpled like a discarded sheet of paper.
The same icy panic I’d felt last night at the sight of the damaged Range Rover swells my throat now, hot and suffocating.
It’s always the same. Any accident, any hint of one, and I’m back there on that rain-slicked road, the world tilting.
I throw the covers back, the need to move, to do something, overriding my exhaustion.
The governor was demanding as expected, his family even more so, but I’ve cooked for many picky eaters, especially the unnecessarily annoying ones, without batting an eye.
But the one variable that wasn’t accounted for was my daughter in the arms of a virtual stranger, her safety balanced against Wrenley’s experience, which is slim to none.
Wrenley has Celeste’s blessing, which goes a long way when it comes to my small circle of loyal friends and family, but as anyone who’s experienced a loss knows, there’s no one, absolutely no one , who can be trusted with the little heart beating outside of my chest aside from me.
Yet I can’t stop working. Because if I stop, I think, and I remember, which is the exact situation I find myself in now.
Coffee. Ivy’s breakfast. Routine. These anchors keep me from drifting completely.
I dress in the near dark in a T-shirt and well-worn jeans, and head for the kitchen deliberately early. I’ll tell Wrenley this morning. Firmly. Her services are no longer required.
Ivy would adjust, of course. She has to. But this revolving door of nannies, this constant, low thrum of disorder Wrenley seemed to drag in with her, is not sustainable.
I need control over my realm, and Wrenley Morgan, with her sad eyes and pink-streaked hair, is a variable I cannot manage.
When I come downstairs to the kitchen, however, it’s not empty.
Wrenley stands at the island, already dressed, earbuds in, humming to a beat only she can hear. She’s in tight yoga pants that fit like a second skin, perfectly outlining an ass so round it could’ve been grown at a peach farm.
I don’t realize I’ve been staring until my eyes burn, and I have to blink. My gaze drags up over the curve of her waist and the gentle sway of her ponytail as she bounces on her toes, completely unaware she’s waking me up in ways my two morning espressos could never.
I subtly adjust myself, grateful she’s facing away. Because if I had to see the way her tits move in that fitted workout top—fuck me. She’d know. There’d be no hiding it.
I’m attracted to her.
Not just some passing, inconvenient awareness.
I want my hands on her ass. On her breasts. On every goddamn part of her.
No.
Fuck.
Leaning against the doorway, I watch her assemble something on the counter between her dance moves and notice a small, worn suitcase and a duffel bag sitting by the back door, a silent testament to her intention to leave.
Good. Makes this easier.
I push off the doorframe, opening my mouth to speak, the carefully rehearsed words ready, but they catch in my throat.
On the counter, Ivy’s lunchbox lies open. Her ham and cheese sandwich is cut into the shape of a goddamn star. Carrot sticks are arranged like rays of a sun around a small container of hummus, and a cluster of grapes sits next to a tiny, folded note with what looks like a crudely drawn shark on it.
Moving next to Wrenley, I pick up the note. Inside, in neat print, it says: Have a fin-tastic day, Shark Girl!
A muscle under my eye twitches. I fold the note up and put it back.
This … this is not the work of someone just going through the motions.
This is care. The kind of thoughtful detail I, in my grief-stricken haze and demanding schedule, rarely manage anymore.
I can make sandwiches, obviously. But a star-shaped one with a shark note?
That’s a language I’d forgotten how to speak and time I didn’t allow myself.
Wrenley turns, a half-eaten apple in her hand, and screams .
Her apple thuds to the floor, rolling under the kick plate of a cabinet. Wrenley yanks out her earbuds, one hand flying to her chest, her eyes wide and wild.
“You—you scared the shit out of me! I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you were … I don’t know, a giant bear with a vendetta.”
A giant bear. With tattoos, apparently. I look pointedly at her suitcase by the porch’s door.
“Planning a quick getaway before the bearpocolypse?”
She follows my gaze, the blush deepening. “Something like that. I figured after last night… the car…”
She worries her lower lip. The air in the kitchen, moments before filled with her quiet, pleasant singing, now crackles with an awkward tension.
I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter, the image of the star-shaped sandwich fighting with the fresh memory of Celine’s crumpled Fiat.
“The car is just metal, Wrenley. It can be fixed.”
The words sound hollow even to me. Last night, the sight of that dent had ripped open a wound I keep trying to stitch shut.
Wrenley nods, her gaze dropping to the floor. She looks like she didn’t sleep either. There are faint shadows beneath her eyes. “Well, good. Because I really am sorry about that.”
I don’t elaborate. I don’t mention my own terror, and the way the sight of it had sent me spiraling. I just look at the meticulously prepared lunch that Wrenley wasn’t obligated to prepare.
“Ivy will appreciate this,” I say.
Wrenley’s eyes light up, the darkness under them seeming to disappear instantly under her genuine hope. “You think so? She seems the type to like shapes. And notes. It’ll make the carrots less offensive. ”
“Hmph.”
I need coffee. Now. I move toward the machine, turning my back on her, on the suitcase, on the fucking star-shaped sandwich that’s currently derailing my entire plan.
She bends to retrieve her apple, turning to throw it in the garbage bin, her movements subdued now that the music is gone.
Good. This is my opening. Tell her it’s not working out. Tell her Ivy needs consistency, and she isn’t it. But the words taste like burned coffee.
The cutesy lunch.
The goddamn shark note.
“About last night,” I say. Wrenley flinches, her shoulders coming up to her ears.
What is with that? Any sudden movements and the girl spooks like an abused horse.
“Look, Saint, I get it,” she says quickly, her voice suddenly brittle. “I screwed up with the car. I’m a terrible nanny. I’m probably setting Ivy back years in therapy. My suitcase is packed. I’ll just finish making Ivy’s lunch and then I’ll be out of your hair. I’ll even pay for the bumper.”
She says it all in a rush, a shield of rapid-fire words.
I stare at her.
Wrenley flushes under my scrutiny.
The vulnerable admission, hidden under the sarcasm, throws me off. I hadn’t expected her to be so prepared for dismissal.
Or so hard on herself.
“I’ve had it rehearsed since approximately 2:18 a.m.,” she admits, then takes a bite from a new apple, chewing with a defiant sort of energy.
“You’re not a terrible nanny,” I say, my voice kinder than I intend. I turn back to the coffee machine, focusing on the familiar ritual of grinding beans and filling the carafe. It gives my hands something to do, a focal point other than her earnest, anxious face. “You dented a car. It happens.”
Wrenley says nothing. I can feel her watching me, probably waiting for the other shoe to drop, the part where I tell her to get the fuck out, anyway.
This is my opening to do it. More politely, of course. The girl doesn’t deserve a curt dismissal, just as she didn’t deserve my unexpected wrath last night.
“The thing is,” I say, busying myself by grabbing a couple of mugs from the upper cupboard. “Ivy’s attached to you. Temporarily.”
The thought of another tearful goodbye for Ivy, another adjustment, makes my gut clench. “She enjoys a person who understands her artistic level.”
I risk a glance. Wrenley is very still, her apple forgotten in her hand. She’s shifted slightly, putting a little more distance between us, her posture wary.
“My last nanny quit without notice. The one before her lasted three months.” I spin with a full mug of coffee and hand it to her, forcing myself to meet her wide-eyed, beautiful gaze.
“Ivy’s still recovering from her mother’s death.
She doesn’t need another person walking in and out of her life on a whim. ”
“It’s not my intention—” Wrenley stops herself, then glances at her suitcase. “That’s fair.”
The coffee machine gurgles behind me. Wrenley carefully folds the lunchbox closed, her fingers lingering on the clasp.
“Are you asking me to stay? As her nanny?”
“Two weeks.” I say it fast before I can second-guess myself. “Give me two weeks to find someone permanent. Someone qualified.”
The words surprise me as much as they do her, but after reading an email early this morning from the nanny agency stating that their best employee has just accepted a job, and I’d have to wait a few weeks for an adequate replacement, I’m desperate.
“That’s not in my usual job description.” Wrenley tilts her head, studying me. “My references are mostly TikTok comments.”
She takes a tentative sip of the coffee, her eyes still wary over the rim of the mug. “I like Ivy. A lot. But I don’t have any formal training, Saint. No early childhood education degrees, no CPR certification beyond what I learned for a boating license years ago.”
Jesus, I am regretting this by the second.
“You have a boating license?” I ask.
Wrenley offers a small, self-deprecating smile. “Long story. Point is, I’m not exactly nanny material on paper.”
“This is by no means permanent. Ivy doesn’t care about your résumé. She cares that you taught her a mermaid braid and aren’t afraid to be silly with her. For two weeks, that’s enough.”
I loathe how desperate it sounds. How much it exposes the gaping hole in our lives.
“Ivy needs someone who sees her,” I continue, “And you seem to embrace her differences. The agency is backed up. This buys me time.”
Wrenley sets the mug down. “And what do I get out of extending my babysitting gig? Besides the pleasure of your sunny company?”
“What do you want?” I ask, wary.
Wrenley looks out the window toward the guesthouse, then back at me. “Space. Privacy. I came here to get away from everything, and from the little bit that I saw yesterday, I love this town. ”
“You can stay rent-free,” I blurt, cursing inwardly. I’m usually a much better negotiator than this.
“I don’t usually take hand-outs, but while I’m taking care of your daughter, that seems fair. I don’t need you to pay me.”
“Retiring early, are you?”
Her face shutters. Wrenley shifts her weight. “I have enough saved away to get by.”
I don’t know why I asked that. Or why I feel a distinct clenching behind my ribs after noticing her answering expression.
I have no qualms making a person shrivel where they stand when they don’t meet my expectations, but with Wrenley, it doesn’t feel like a dressing down. It feels like I’ve kicked a puppy.
“And after two weeks?” I ask.
She shrugs, a studied casualness. “After two weeks, I’ll have figured out my next move. And you’ll have found Mary Poppins 2.0.”
The coffee maker finishes brewing a second cup. I reach for it, needing its familiar, habitual buzz right about now.
“Keep her safe,” I say. “Stick to her routines as much as possible. And if anything, anything at all seems off, you call me. Immediately.”
Wrenley’s expression sobers. “I understand what’s at stake, Saint. Ivy will be in good hands.”
Something in her tone makes me believe her. Not trust her—I don’t trust anyone with Ivy—but I believe that she grasps the gravity of what I’m asking.
“Good,” I say, taking a long swallow of coffee, the heat doing little to warm the knot in my stomach.
A ghost of a smile plays on her lips, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a weariness there that mirrors my own, a fragility she tries to hide beneath a layer of quick wit .
“Just keep her happy,” I amend, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.
Before she can respond, the telltale thud of small feet hitting the stairs reaches my ears.
“Papa?” Ivy’s sleepy voice calls out, followed by a loud yawn.
She shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, her dark hair a wild halo around her head. Her gaze lands on Wrenley, then on the suitcase still by the door.
A flicker of confusion, then anxiety, crosses her small face.
“Miss Wrenley? You’re still here?” she asks, her voice small.
Wrenley’s expression softens instantly. She crouches down to Ivy’s level. “Morning, Ivy. Of course I’m still here.”
Ivy’s face breaks into a wide, relieved grin. She launches herself at Wrenley, wrapping her arms around her neck in a fierce hug.
Wrenley catches her easily, her earlier tension dissolving as she returns the embrace and laughs when she almost topples over.
I watch them, a complicated ache in my chest.
This is why.
This small, adorable child is the reason I’m letting this pink-haired, apple-dropping, car-denting woman stay in my house, in my life, for two more weeks.
“I’ll see you after school, mon trésor ,” I say to Ivy, walking over and kissing the top of her head.
As I head for the door, I’m aware of Wrenley watching me go and of her suitcase still by the door. I use it as a tangible reminder that she was ready to leave.
That she still will, eventually.