14. Saint
FOURTEEN
SAINT
M y coffee burns my tongue, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that shoots through me when Wrenley stumbles into my kitchen in nothing but pajama shorts and a threadbare T-shirt that leaves too little to my imagination.
I should’ve locked the back door.
For many reasons, since Ivy is the one leading Wrenley inside.
My daughter’s hair is a rat’s nest, her feet are bare and filthy, and her small face is alight with a triumphant grin that tells me this was a premeditated mission.
“Papa!” Ivy chirps. “Miss Wrenley’s awake!”
Wrenley, who looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backward and then dressed by a confused pixie, blinks at me, her eyes wide and still clouded with sleep, the pink streak in her hair a bright slash against her pale face.
Her shirt drapes over the peaks of her nipples. My gaze snags there for a beat too long .
“I, uh,” Wrenley stammers, crossing her arms over her breasts. “Ivy was very… persuasive. At my door. Then climbing onto my bed. Very early.”
I purse my lips, containing the annoyed grumble. My daughter, the miniature escape artist, decided to bypass the stairs and make a pre-dawn raid on the guesthouse.
Explains why the house was so quiet while I prepared pancakes for our Saturday morning ritual.
“Miss Wrenley, why are your eyes puffy?” Ivy asks, abandoning Wrenley’s side to circle her. “Were you crying?”
Wrenley’s cheeks turn a deep scarlet, and she laughs louder than usual, then rakes a hand through her hair and replies, “No, sweetie. Just sleepy.”
“Oh.” Ivy considers this. “Papa’s eyes look weird too. And he’s using the wrong spatula.”
I glance down. She’s right. I’m using the fish spatula instead of the pancake turner. Christ.
Last night has affected me more than it should. I’ve fired plenty of nannies since moving here, and none of them had me questioning my sanity or my kitchen utensils.
“Maybe we should let Miss Wrenley go back to the guesthouse,” I say, still facing the stove.
“Why? Papa made extra pancakes,” Ivy announces, tugging Wrenley toward the table. “He always makes too many.”
I don’t. I make exactly seven. Three for me and four for Ivy who insists on slicing and arranging them into towers she demolishes with theatrical glee. The batter bowl sits empty by the stove.
Wrenley’s bare feet hesitate on my kitchen tile. Her toes curl against the cold. “I should get back. Get dressed.”
“You’re here. Eat. ”
It’s not a request. It’s a clumsy attempt to rewind the clock, to erase the hurt I see etched around her mouth, even if it’s just for the duration of a stack of pancakes. She finally lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second, and the openness there is a punch to the gut.
Wrenley’s fingers find the hem of her shirt, twisting the fabric. The gesture pulls the material taut across her chest, and I force my gaze to the window. To the coffee maker. To anywhere else.
“Just one, then,” Wrenley murmurs, finally. “If it’s no trouble.”
Oh, it’s fucking trouble.
Her presence is a constant, low-grade disruption. A beautiful, unwelcome sunrise in a world of gray.
I slide pancakes onto plates. Three plates. My hands move on autopilot while my brain screams at the stupidity of prolonging this while Wrenley leads Ivy to the sink to wash their hands.
“Saturdays are for pancakes and horses,” Ivy says as Wrenley holds the soap. “We’re going to Rome’s Ranch, right, Papa? You promised.”
Wrenley’s eyes clash with mine over the faucet. The question there is clear: Does she know?
I give the slightest shake of my head. No. Ivy doesn’t know Wrenley’s supposed to leave this morning. Taking Ivy to the ranch was supposed to fill the gaping hole Wrenley would leave behind and act as a distraction while I told Ivy that Wrenley would no longer be watching her.
“What? I just want to see the horses.” Ivy turns to Wrenley. “You like horses, right?”
“Ivy.” I need her to stop talking. Need to think. Need Wrenley to stop looking at me the way she is .
“Papa?” Ivy presses, her sweet voice pulling me back. “You said we could go. Wrenley should come, too.”
I should say no. Keep things clean and simple. Send Wrenley to the guesthouse to pack and stick to the plan.
The refusal sticks in my throat when I meet Ivy’s expectant face. It’s been so long since she’s lit up like this with someone who isn’t me or her mother.
Wrenley shifts her weight as she dries both their hands with a small towel.
“I can stay here,” she offers quietly. “You two should go have fun.”
“No!” Ivy protests. “Miss Wrenley has to come too. She’s never seen the horses!”
Wrenley’s eyes find mine again. Her shoulders are braced for rejection, steeling herself against another dismissal.
“You want to see horses?” I ask her on a sigh.
She blinks, surprised by the question. “I ... yes. I love horses.”
“You do?” Ivy gasps with delight. “Because some of them are secret unicorns, right?”
Wrenley’s laugh is soft and genuine. “Absolutely. The magic ones hide their horns when humans are watching.”
The cage around my heart nearly cracks open at the sight of Wrenley playing along with Ivy’s fantasy. Not dismissing or correcting her, but joining her in that sacred space of childhood, where anything is possible.
“Fine,” I concede, and it nearly chokes me to death. “You can come.”
Ivy squeals, bouncing on her toes. Wrenley’s eyes widen, her lips parting in surprise at my surrender.
“But,” I add quickly, pointing the spatula at my daughter, “you need to get dressed first. ”
Ivy nods excitedly.
Wrenley settles at the island beside Ivy, her movements cautious, like she’s navigating a minefield. Which, in a way, she is. I’ve practically pushed her out, then invited her back in for breakfast and a ranch visit.
What the fuck am I doing?
Extending this goodbye is cruel to all of us. It’s giving Ivy false hope. It’s giving an uncomfortable spice in my chest that I really don’t like because I keep having to clear my damn throat.
Ivy chatters through breakfast, oblivious to the current running between Wrenley and me. Each time our eyes meet, electricity pulses through the room. When Wrenley’s fork slips from her fingers, clattering against her plate, I know she feels it too.
“These are amazing,” she says.
“They’re special pancakes,” Ivy explains seriously. “Papa puts vanilla in them. And fairy dust.”
“I can taste it,” Wrenley replies, taking another bite. Her tongue darts out to catch a drop of syrup on her lower lip, and my body responds with an immediacy that’s both inappropriate and undeniable.
I push back from the counter. “I’ll get the car ready.”
I need air. Space. Distance from the soft curves under that threadbare shirt and the way Wrenley looks at my daughter like she’s a miracle.
“I should get dressed.” Wrenley rises as well.
Ivy glances between the two new bookends on either side of her.
“Yes. Go,” I say to Wrenley harsher than intended. “We leave in twenty minutes.”
Her eyes narrow slightly at my tone, but she nods and slips out the back door. The sight of the muscles undulating under the skin of her bare legs makes my mouth go dry.
The moment she’s gone, Ivy turns to me, arms folded in front of her in a gesture so reminiscent of her mother that my breath stalls.
“You’re being mean again, Papa.”
“Eat your pancakes,” I mutter, pushing her plate closer.
“You like Miss Wrenley,” she accuses as she drowns her stack in more syrup. “But you’re scared.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “What? I’m not scared of anything.”
Ivy rolls her eyes with the dramatic flair of someone three times her age.
Rather than remaining stunned, I arch a suspicious brow at my daughter.
“Miss Wrenley makes you have feelings,” Ivy says, methodically dismantling her pancake tower. “That’s why your face gets all scrunchy when she’s around.”
“My face does not get scrunchy,” I reply, appalled.
Ivy demonstrates what she means, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips in an expression that’s uncomfortably accurate.
“Finish your breakfast,” I say with a dismissive wave that is in no way a surrender to my daughter. “And then go brush your teeth and find shoes. Real shoes, not those sparkly monstrosities that fall off every three steps.”
Outside, the morning is crisp, autumn settling firmly into the bones of Falcon Haven. I stand by the Range Rover, keys dangling from my fingers, and try to breathe through the rigidity of my posture .
This is so fucking dumb. One last adventure before the inevitable goodbye. One more memory for Ivy to mourn when Wrenley leaves.
For me to mourn.
It’s for the best.
“I’m ready!” Ivy announces, skipping down the porch steps in her favorite purple cowboy boots.
Wrenley follows, now dressed in tight jeans and a cream sweater, her hair tamed into a loose braid, the pink streak woven through it.
She’s beautiful. Effortlessly so.
“I brought Ivy’s jacket,” she says, holding up the small purple jacket. “It’s supposed to get windy.”
“Thanks,” I say, appreciating her forethought.
Our fingers brush when I take the coat from her, a spark of warmth shocking the cool morning air.
I pretend I don’t feel it, turning my attention to helping Ivy into her seat while Wrenley slides into the passenger side.
The SUV feels suddenly smaller when I get in, Wrenley’s floral, vanilla scent filling the confined space and expanding in my lungs with deadly accuracy.
I adjust the rearview mirror, catching Ivy’s grin in the reflection.
We pull away from the house, the tires crunching over the gravel drive. I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead and clench the wheel at 10 and 2, despite never being in the habit of doing so.
Wrenley’s profile in my peripheral vision is a constant distraction. The curve of her cheek and the fullness of her mouth, the line of her jaw, her angles and curves are more mesmerizing than any landscape offered outside these windows .
“Miss Wrenley, did you know horses can sleep standing up?” Ivy’s voice cuts through the silence from the back seat.