20. Wrenley #2
Heavy, rapid footsteps on the trail cut our conversation short. My heart lurches into my throat as Saint thunders around the bend, moving with a single-minded focus that makes my pulse trip.
He looks like hell. Dark shadows cup his eyes and his jaw sports several days of stubble. His clothes are rumpled like he slept in them—or didn’t sleep at all. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled haphazardly, revealing the tattoos I traced with my fingertips four nights ago.
Ivy stiffens in my arms, pressing closer to me.
“Papa’s really mad,” she whispers.
Saint reaches us in four long strides, dropping to his knees in front of us. “Ivy. Don’t you ever ?—”
His voice breaks, and he pulls her from my lap into a crushing embrace .
Saint buries his face in her hair, his shoulders trembling once before he locks them rigid again.
I rise to my feet, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. Saint’s eyes finally lift to mine over Ivy’s head, and for one unguarded moment, he lets me see everything. His relief, exhaustion, and a shine that might be tears before he blinks, and the shutters come down.
“Miss Wrenley didn’t know I was coming,” Ivy says. “Don’t be mad at her.”
Saint sets Ivy down but keeps his hand firmly on her shoulder. “Go wait by that big oak tree. I need to talk to Miss Wrenley.”
“But—”
“Now, Ivy.”
She throws me one last worried glance before trudging to the tree, just far enough away that she can’t hear us but close enough that Saint can watch her.
The moment she’s out of earshot, Saint turns to me, tension vibrating through every fiber of his body.
“She could have been kidnapped. Hit by a car. Fallen into the creek.” His voice is low, controlled, but with an undercurrent of something volcanic. “Do you have any idea what it was like getting that call from the school?”
“I can imagine,” I say quietly.
“No, you can’t.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is already standing on end like he’s been doing that all morning. “She’s never run away before. Not once. Then suddenly she disappears from school to find you.”
The accusation lands like a slap. “Are you blaming me for this?”
“I’m—” He cuts himself off, jaw working. “No. I’m not.”
We stand facing each other, the rushing creek providing white noise for all the things we’re not saying .
“I just...” Saint looks away, his profile sharp against the backdrop of autumn trees. “I spent two hours thinking I’d lost her.”
The open fear in his voice makes my heart throb. I want to touch him, to offer comfort, but the distance between us feels wider than the creek.
“She said Erin told her I’d forgotten about her,” I say softly.
Saint’s head snaps back to me. “What?”
“Among other things. Apparently, she’s also critiquing Ivy’s art.’“
A muscle jumps under his eye. “I’ll handle that.”
“She misses me, Saint.” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite my sweater. “And I miss her.”
His eyes search mine so thoroughly, I feel like my soul was just examined. “Just her?”
The question, those two simple words, sends a tingle all the way from my head to my toes.
“No,” I admit, holding his gaze. “Not just her.”
Saint takes a half step toward me. “Wrenley…”
“Papa!” Ivy calls from her tree. “Can Miss Wrenley come back with us? Please?”
Saint’s expression shutters again, professional mask sliding back into place. “We need to get you back to school, Ivy.”
“But it’s almost lunchtime! Can’t we have lunch with Miss Wrenley instead?”
I see the refusal forming on his lips and jump in before he can crush her. “I should get back anyway. I have some work to do.”
“What kind of work?” Ivy skips back to us. “Can I help?”
“Maybe next time,” I say to her with a forced smile.
Saint’s eyes flick to my phone, still clutched in my hand. There’s a shift in his expression, a darkening, a kind of recognition that makes my stomach drop.
“Are you back to making content for your followers?” he asks quietly.
I freeze. “How did you know?”
“Papa knows everything,” Ivy announces, oblivious to the sudden tension. “He’s magic.”
Saint’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
“Not everything,” he says, and there’s an implication in his tone that makes me wonder exactly what he knows—or thinks he knows—about me.
“I should go,” I repeat, taking a step back.
“Wrenley.” Saint’s voice stops me. “Thank you. For calling. For keeping her safe.”
“Always,” I say, meaning it more than he could know.
Ivy lunges forward, wrapping her arms around my waist in a fierce hug. “Promise you won’t forget me?”
I crouch down, meeting her at eye level. “I could never forget you, Ivy Toussaint. Not in a million years.”
She nods solemnly, then whispers, “Papa misses you, too. He just won’t say it.”
Saint’s sharp intake of breath tells me he heard her whisper. When I straighten, his face is carved from stone, but an unnamed pain ripples behind his eyes.
“Ivy. Time to go.”
She deflates but obeys, slipping her small hand into his. I turn to leave, needing distance before I do something ridiculous like beg him to let me back into their lives.
“Wrenley.”
I pause but don’t turn around. Can’t. Not when his voice sounds like gravel and yearning, a tone he reserves just for me .
“The apartment above the bookstore. Is it ... are you comfortable there?”
The question catches me off guard. I glance over my shoulder. Neither he nor Ivy has moved.
“It’s nice,” I say.
“The radiator in that building is ancient. Marcus should have—” He stops himself, cheek muscles popping against his stubble. “Never mind.”
“He’s giving me a great deal on the place.” I shift my feet. “How did you know where I’m living?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Small town.”
“Right.” I take another step away. “I really should get going.”
“You look good.”
The observation stops me cold. “So do you.”
Saint would look good half drowned and covered in dead fish.
He’d look amazing dressed in a paper bag.
Even now, when he’s exhausted, rumpled, and looking like he’s been subsisting on rage and coffee, he’s devastating.
The stubble just makes him look more dangerous.
The wrinkled shirt draws attention to his shoulders and the way the fabric pulls when he moves.
And those shadows under his eyes? They just make me want to drag him to bed.
For sleep. Obviously. Just sleep.
“Papa, you’re staring again,” Ivy observes.
Heat creeps up my neck.
Saint blinks, the moment fracturing. “Come on, mon trèsor . Let’s get you fed.”
I glance at Ivy, whose face has fallen. “Maybe I could walk you both back to town? Make sure she doesn’t stage another escape attempt?”
Ivy brightens immediately. “Yes! And you can tell me about your new apartment! Does it have good hiding spots? ”
“Ivy,” Saint warns.
“What? I’m just asking for future reference.”
Ivy slips between us, grabbing my hand with her left and Saint’s with her right. “This is perfect! Just like before!”
Saint and I carefully don’t look at each other as we start walking, Ivy chattering about everything she’s done in the past five days.
Each detail is a small knife—how she tried to make cookies with Miss Erin, but they turned out “crunchy in the wrong way,” how she painted a picture of me, but Miss Erin said it was “nice but maybe focus on something else now.”
“She sounds...” I search for a neutral word. “Structured.”
“She has a degree in early childhood development.” Saint’s voice is carefully neutral.
“I’m sure that’s very helpful.”
“It is.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Papa, you’re doing the thing where you say words but mean other words,” Ivy observes.
Saint’s mouth twitches. “I don’t do that.”
“You literally do it all the time,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes meet mine over Ivy’s head, and for a second, I see affection flash through them. “Maybe you just think you know what I mean.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
“Maybe I’m not.”
“Are you two going to kiss?” Ivy asks helpfully. “Because that would fix everything.”