13. Wrenley #2
He watches me take another bite, the cured salmon melting on my tongue. The tiny pearls of roe pop with a satisfying brininess.
Saint takes a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving my face. He leans against the counter. “I wasn’t sure you’d like it.”
“Why? Because it’s not peanut butter and bananas?”
He almost smiles again.
“It’s perfect,” I say, feeling the warmth of the wine, the food, his attention.
Saint’s shoulders relax as if my reaction has lifted a weight. “I’ll remember that. ”
He refills my glass, his fingers grazing mine against the stem, lingering this time. “Ivy’s happy with you.”
I look down at my plate, at the delicate arrangement of flavors and colors. “She’s not the only one.”
The wine is crisp, cutting through the rich flavors of the salmon. And Saint still won’t take his eyes off me.
I feel like I’m the one who’s been cured with sweetness and ready to melt on his tongue.
“Is this a one-time thing?” I ask, my voice tentative. “Or will you be experimenting more?”
He lifts the wineglass to his lips, fully aware of my double meaning. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you want to stay.”
My heart skips. No, it doesn’t just skip. It lurches sideways, cramming itself against my ribs like it’s trying to escape through a space in its cage of bone.
“Ivy wants me to,” I say softly. “But I don’t know if?—”
“If I want you to?” Saint finishes for me, his voice gruffer than before. “I told you. Ivy’s attached.”
I pick at the edge of the salmon, the fork trembling slightly in my hand. “And you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves around the island. I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with wine and lemon. He’s close enough that I notice how his jaw shadows his neck.
“I’m attached,” he finally says. “Too much. Too fast.”
The air turns thick as honey in my lungs. I stop knowing how to breathe because breathing means accepting this is real and not a dream.
“You didn’t seem attached three nights ago.”
“Because I panicked.” He cups my chin, forcing me to stay on his eyes. “You’re not a mistake, Wrenley. ”
The knot in my chest loosens, just a little.
Saint releases my chin, his fingers trailing down my neck before stroking a loose strand of hair back from my face. “But I’m not sure I can be what you need.”
A chill creeps in, and I reach for my wine, needing something to hold on to to keep my hands busy.
Saint’s voice is firm, but edged with hesitation. “I’m not easy. And I’ve already put you through too much.”
“So is this you trying to protect me?”
The familiar sting of rejection pierces my stomach.
“Trying not to fuck it up,” he corrects. “I don’t want to hurt you, Wrenley.”
He already has. But I don’t say it. I can’t, because saying it allowed means admitting I’ve already let him in enough to draw blood from my heart.
“Then don’t fuck it up,” I say instead, reaching for him, my fingers brushing his bare forearm. “I want to stay, Saint.”
He looks at me, really looks, and for a moment, I think I’ve gotten through. That this time he won’t retreat.
Then his expression shifts. “I talked to Erin.”
Air is knocked from my lungs. I shake my head, dislodging the confusion his statement brings. “Miss Erin, from Ivy’s school?”
He nods. “She offered to help with Ivy before and after school while I wait for a permanent replacement.”
A hollow laugh escapes before I can stop it, falling apart inside my chest and rattling against my ribs. “Of course she did.”
Saint’s jaw tightens. “She’s highly qualified. Certified in child development, education, and care. I’d be a fool not to consider it.”
A shard of ice drops into my stomach. Its cold spreads outward until my fingertips go numb around the wineglass .
“Qualified,” I repeat. “Right.”
The exquisite salmon, the shared wine, his admission of being “attached”—it all curdles in my stomach, turning into a bitter, mocking joke.
Saint wasn’t asking me to stay. He was… what?
Softening the blow? Offering a consolation prize before delivering the final verdict?
My hand, still holding the wineglass, trembles so violently I have to set it down before I drop it.
The delicate clink against the stone countertop sounds unnaturally loud in the sudden, suffocating silence.
“She’s good with Ivy,” Saint continues, his gaze steady, oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, to the devastation he’s just wrought. “She understands her needs from a professional standpoint.”
Consistency. Professional. Qualified.
He’s choosing the sensible option, the one that makes sense on paper, the one that doesn’t involve messy emotions or women with questionable pasts and pink-streaked hair.
He’s choosing Erin. The man who just admitted he was attached to me, who kissed me senseless by the fire, is now calmly explaining why another woman is a better fit.
I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t let him see how thoroughly his words have gutted me.
“So when is Erin taking over?” I ask through a thickening throat.
Saint frowns, a crease appearing between his brows. “Not taking over. I thought it would free you up as well. You didn’t come to this town to be a nanny. I essentially blackmailed you into it so you’d have a place to stay while you figured out other lodging.”
Saint’s being reasonable and logical. He’s offering a solution to a problem he thinks I have. He doesn’t see that he is the problem. Or rather, my stupid, persistent feelings for him are. And for his daughter .
“Erin, with her degrees and her professional standpoint, is a much better long-term investment than the flighty influencer who dents your cars and has meltdowns during thunderstorms.”
My voice is dangerously quiet, each word carefully enunciated to mask the tremor threatening to break through. He’s not offering me an out. He’s showing me the door, albeit politely, with a side of cured salmon.
Saint’s expression darkens, a shadow of confusion obscuring his features.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, it’s fine,” I interrupt, pushing back from the island, the beautiful plate of food suddenly nauseating. “It makes perfect sense. Ivy needs stability. Someone reliable.”
“Wrenley.”
“You don’t need to explain.” I force a brittle smile. “You’re right. I didn’t come here to be a nanny. And it’s good that Erin stepped up.”
I need to get out of here before he sees the cracks. Yes, he’s offering me my original wish on a silver platter, but why does it feel like a severance package?
Saint’s giving me the freedom I thought I wanted, but taking away the one thing—the two people—who had begun to make that freedom feel less like a vast, empty expanse and more like a space I could actually inhabit.
“Next week, it’s off the table, then?” I manage to ask.
I accidentally meet his stare and notice a flash of emotion in his eyes. I hope to god it’s not pity. “Erin can start Monday.”
Nodding, I say, “I’ll be out by tomorrow morning. Just please, let me say goodbye to Ivy.”
Saint’s expression falls. “Of course.”
My feet move, carrying me toward the back door to the guesthouse, the only sanctuary I have left, however temporary. Each step is a monumental effort, like wading through concrete.
“Wrenley, wait.”
Saint’s voice follows me, but it’s distant, like he’s calling from the other side of a canyon. I’m already at the door, my hand on the cool metal of the knob, a desperate need to escape writhing around inside me.
Inside, I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want to see my reflection, the inevitable tear tracks, the stupid hope that had been so clearly written on my face just minutes ago.
He’s attached. Too much. Too fast.
Liar.
Or maybe just an asshole.
I collapse onto the small sofa, my chambray shirt clinging to my damp skin. But I don’t scrape. I don’t scratch, or pull, or break skin.
My fingers hover over the screen of my phone, then I force myself to type out a message before I lose my nerve.
Hey, Brenda. I’ve been marinating.
I hit send, then drop the phone onto the cushions, a sunken feeling settling in my chest.