32. Saint
THIRTY-TWO
SAINT
I vy is asleep when I get home, her arms thrown wide and mouth open in a way that makes her look much younger than five.
I hover in her doorway for a while, watching her chest rise and fall, feeling the ache of everything I’m supposed to give her.
For years, I told myself that keeping her safe was the same as keeping myself safe, that if I just kept turmoil out, the world would never cut into her.
But what if I was just using her as a shield? What if I was so afraid of wanting anything for myself that I hid behind her and let Ivy become the reason I never had to take a risk?
When I finally head downstairs, I find Erin curled up on my couch with a glass of my wine, scrolling through her phone. She’s changed out of her professional clothing and into an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, which I understand because it’s past 3 a.m.…
… until I notice what sweatshirt she’s wearing.
It’s one of mine, a lived-in, gray one with a flying unicorn pulling a rainbow banner saying “GIRL DAD” that Ivy chose for me a while ago. It’s also the one Wrenley stole every morning because she said it had the perfect mix of softness, Ivy-ness, and Saint-ness.
“Make yourself at home,” I say dryly, also noticing the fire she’s lit in the hearth.
She looks up with a smile that’s nothing like the professional mask she wears at school or with my daughter. “I hope you don’t mind. I found the wine in your pantry, and Ivy was asking about the fireplace earlier. Thought it might help her sleep better.”
My gaze lands on the wine bottle next to her glass. A 2015 Pauillac I brought back from France last year.
“That’s a two-hundred-dollar bottle, Erin.”
“Is it?” She takes another sip, completely unbothered. “It’s delicious. You have excellent taste.”
I run a hand through my hair, then move to the kitchen. Bourbon would be preferable, but since I’ll be seeing Ivy in a few hours, coffee it is.
Erin gets to her feet and follows, wineglass in hand.
“So,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. “I saw the video before Wrenley deleted it.”
My hands still on the coffee maker. I’ve accepted I won’t be sleeping tonight. “And?”
“I have to say, I was surprised. You don’t strike me as the type to let someone film you.”
There’s a subtext to her tone that makes my shoulders tense. “It wasn’t planned.”
“No, I imagine it wasn’t.” She moves closer, wineglass dangling from her fingers. “But I can see why it went viral.”
I can no longer keep my back turned on her. “What’s your point, Erin?”
“My point is that I’ve been watching you for months, Saint. Watching you hold everyone at arm’s length, including me.” She sets the wineglass on the counter at my elbow. “But you let her in after what, a week?”
Erin’s crowding my space enough that I can smell her perfume, spicy and musky, nothing like Wrenley’s tropics and flowers.
I lean back against the counter, arms crossed.
She rests a hand on my forearm. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Ivy’s the best kid I’ve ever worked with, and you pay me more than I make teaching, but we both know why you hired me, and it’s not for my lesson plans.”
I stay where I am, a cold curiosity blooming. “Why do you think I hired you?”
She shrugs, rubbing her thumb back and forth against my arm. “Because I’m a safe bet. I’m someone who can handle your daughter without getting attached or messy. I’m not going to fall in love with you, Saint. I’m not going to try to be her mother. I’m not the type to get my heart broken.”
Erin lifts her wine with her free hand, takes a sip, then sets it back down, all while keeping her unwavering gaze locked on mine. “Tonight, Ivy woke up twice. She kept calling for Wrenley, even though she wasn’t here. She said she dreamed Wrenley was lost at the bottom of the lake.”
I flinch, both at the fact that Ivy’s having nightmares again, and that Erin’s hitting much too close to the truth.
Erin sees it, inching closer until her breasts press against my crossed arms.
“You know,” Erin murmurs, sliding her hand up my arm, “I could help you forget about her.”
I don’t move as her fingers trace the tattoo peeking from beneath my sleeve.
“I’m not looking for that,” I say, tone flat.
“Aren’t you?” She presses closer, her body warm under my sweatshirt. “You used to be. Before her. ”
My hands find her shoulders, creating distance between us. “Erin?—”
“I’ve heard the stories, Saint.” Her fingers trail down my chest, stopping at the hem of my chef’s jacket. “The chef who worked hard and played harder. The man who never spent two nights with the same woman.”
She flexes her hand, her fingers brushing against my cock.
When she goes under my shirt, palm flat against my clenched stomach, I let her.
“We could be good together,” she murmers, leaning in and tilting her head up until our mouths nearly touch. “No complications. No feelings. Just this.”
For a split second, I fall into the old version of myself, the one who would’ve taken this offer without hesitation and bent her over the counter and fucked away the emptiness while replacing it with fleeting pleasure.
But the image leaves me cold. And flaccid.
“Stop.”
I catch her wrist before she can go lower.
“You don’t mean that,” Erin says with a disbelieving smile.
I drop her wrist, but she doesn’t back away. Instead, she takes my rejection as a challenge, pressing forward until her body aligns with mine. The familiar weight of a woman against me triggers nothing—no heat, no desire, no distraction from the hollow ache in my chest.
“Ivy’s upstairs,” I remind her.
Not that it ever stopped me from taking my time with Wrenley and making her see stars.
“She’s sound asleep. I checked twice.” Erin slides her hands up my chest again, this time with more purpose.
Her lips brush against my jaw, and I feel ... nothing. Not even a flicker of the old hunger that used to drive me from bed to bed, body to body.
She tilts her head, studying me with a calculating gaze. “Fuck me, Saint.”
I gently pry her off and step to the side, the kitchen feeling too small, too intimate.
Erin follows, undeterred.
“Saint.”
Erin’s voice drops to a silky purr. She plays with the hem of the sweatshirt, then, with calculated ease, she pulls it over her head, revealing her bare breasts, nipples hardening.
“No strings,” she says, reaching for my hand. “No complications. God, I’ve wanted you for so long.”
She guides my palm to her breast, warm and full.
My body should respond. It’s a familiar dance, the late-night encounter, the willing woman, the promise of forgetting everything in a haze of sweat and skin. I’ve choreographed this a hundred times before.
But my hand feels wrong and alien, like I’m watching someone else’s hand attached to someone else’s arm.
Erin reads the hesitation and leans in, pressing her lips against my mouth, arching into my hand and hoping for friction, reaction, anything.
I almost laugh. The irony is that with Wrenley, I never had to try.
She was nervous and shy, but when I put my mouth on her, it was like I released a kraken.
She couldn’t get enough of me, and I hunted and marked her despite the very real risk that she could rip my heart out of my chest and eat me alive.
With Erin, I wait for that spark, for the heat to simmer into an explosion, for some knee-jerk reaction of who I used to be.
Nothing.
I pull back but Erin chases me down, catching my mouth harder this time, her teeth dragging, tongue insistent .
When I can’t take the desperation anymore, I gently break the kiss.
Her breath comes fast, chest rising and falling. She straightens, anger flickering behind her lashes.
“Is it because of her?” Erin asks.
I don’t answer.
Erin retreats but doesn’t bother to cover up, her shoulders squared and her chin high.
“You really can’t do it, can you? She’s not coming back to you.
She’s going to move on, leave this town, and live some fake life in a city like LA or New York.
Wrenley’s the complete opposite of you, Saint!
She’s the exact type of person you want nothing to do with. ”
I scrub a hand over my jaw and let the silence stretch until it starts to sweat.
“You done?” I ask.
Erin blinks, momentarily thrown. “Excuse me?”
“I said”—I take a step closer, dropping my voice into that low, razor-lined register that used to make line cooks cry—”are you fucking done?”
She folds her arms over her bare chest. “I’m just trying to make you see reason. Wrenley doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t belong with you.”
“And you do?” I laugh, and it’s not a nice sound. “You think because you slipped on a sweatshirt and drank my wine that makes you part of my life?”
Her face hardens. “You’re being an asshole.”
“Yeah, well, congratulations. You finally met me.” I step around her and reach for the sweatshirt still puddled on the floor.
“You don’t get to use my daughter’s nightmares as leverage.
You don’t get to wear Wrenley’s sweatshirt and crawl into her spot like you’re auditioning to replace her.
And you sure as shit don’t get to decide who belongs in my life. ”
Erin stiffens. “So what—you’re in love with her? ”
I toss the sweatshirt onto the couch. “I was a fucking idiot for letting her go. That’s all you need to know.”
Erin says, voice tight, “You really think a girl like that is sitting in that apartment dreaming about playing house with a moody chef and his five-year-old? She has millions of fans. You have an awkward kid who draws on your walls.”
I grab the wineglass she left behind, overcoming the urge to throw it at the wall to watch it scare the shit out of Erin, the least she deserves after insulting my daughter.
I dump it in the sink instead and say, in a deadly tone, “I don’t know what I think, but I’ll take not knowing over wasting another second pretending anyone else was ever going to measure up. ”
Erin sputters. “If you want to chase some influencer who’s allergic to real life, then fine.”
When I turn around, Erin’s shoving her arms through her blouse, then grabbing her bag. Her cheeks are red, her expression tight with wounded pride.
“You need to find another nanny,” she snaps.
I nod once. “Yep. Figured.”
She hesitates like she wants to say something else, but the door slams before she can decide.
The kitchen smells like her perfume and smoke. I open a window, then finish making the coffee. With a steaming mug in my hands, I take a seat at the kitchen island and drink it black, watching the fire in the living room burn down to coals.