3. Wrenley #2
“And rainbows coming out of their butts!” She laughs riotously after saying this.
“Of course,” I agree with a wide smile. “Rainbow farts are essential unicorn features.”
Ivy’s mouth drops open. She looks at me with wide eyes. Then she slaps her palms against her thighs and yells, “FARTS!” before she falls over laughing.
Her joy is so unexpected and delightful, my heart literally rises from the lightness of it.
Desperate to hear more, I say while dipping my finger in a puddle of blue paint, “Sometimes adults forget that art doesn’t always have to stay on paper.”
“That’s what I said! But not with those words.” She hands me a smooth, flat stone. “You can do this one, too.”
I accept the stone with a smile.
“She screamed really loud,” Ivy says matter-of-factly. “Papa had to give her money for the car wash. Then she said I was—” she pauses, clearly quoting, “—’impossible to manage’ and ‘deliberately destructive.’“
The hurt in her voice is unmistakable beneath the bravado. I keep painting my rocks, giving her space to continue.
“I wanted to make her happy. She was always saying how much she missed her old car.” Ivy’s small fingers work methodically, adding intricate patterns to her mermaid. “I thought unicorns make everything better.”
“That’s because unicorns do make everything better?—”
“IVY!”
The bellow slices through our peaceful moment like a chainsaw.
Saint charges across the garden, his face a thundercloud of fury. His hair sticks up at odd angles like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, and he’s in a wrinkled black T-shirt and sweatpants, as if he threw them on in a rush.
“Ivy!” he barks her name again. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
He stops short when he sees me sitting cross-legged beside his daughter.
“What the hell is this?” His eyes narrow, flicking between Ivy and me.
“Papa!” Ivy jumps up, oblivious to his fury. “Look what Miss Wrenley and I made! She understands about unicorn butts!”
“Jesus Christ,” Saint mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. “Do you have any idea—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched so tight that all of his cheek muscles ripple. “You can’t just disappear like that.”
“I wasn’t gone,” Ivy protests. “I was right here.”
“You weren’t in your room when I checked. You weren’t in the kitchen. You weren’t—” He stops, seeming to realize I’m witnessing his parental meltdown.
“We’re just painting rocks,” I say, squaring my shoulders despite the fact that I’m sitting on damp grass in a borrowed robe with paint-covered fingers. “She’s been perfectly safe.”
“I woke up and she was gone. Completely gone.” His voice drops to a dangerous rumble. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
The raw fear beneath his anger is unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” I say, softening my tone. “She was already out here when I found her. I should’ve brought her back to the house.”
Saint stares at me, and for a moment, I glimpse the sheer terror that comes with parenthood. The kind that turns rational people into frantic searchers of empty rooms.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“No, I’m—” Saint stops himself, swallows hard. “I just woke up to her empty bed and...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t need to.
Ivy, oblivious to the adult undercurrents, tugs on her father’s hand. “Papa, Miss Wrenley said my art doesn’t have to stay on paper. She gets it.”
Saint’s eyes meet mine again, shining a gorgeous blue in the morning light. I have to stop myself from audibly gulping.
“Can she have breakfast with us?” Ivy asks. “Please? She likes my mermaids.”
Saint hesitates, and I jump in to spare him. “Actually, I should probably?—”
“Yes,” he says, surprising me. “If Miss Morgan wants.”
“Wrenley,” I correct automatically. “Just Wrenley is fine.”
“Wrenley, then.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the fact that I’m not wearing pants.
I should say no. I should retreat to the guesthouse, pack my bags, and drive away from whatever this complicated situation is. Instead, I hear myself say, “I’d like that.”
Ivy beams triumphantly and scampers toward the house, leaving colorful footprints in her wake.
When she’s out of earshot, Saint runs a hand through his hair, studying me sidelong. “Usually her nanny is here at this time and I’m at the restaurant, but…”
“She quit,” I say, standing and brushing grass off myself, but only managing to leave smears of paint on the robe. “Ivy told me a little bit about what happened.”
His eyes narrow in further assessment. “Do you have kids?”
“No,” I say, then bite my lip. “But I used to be a camp counselor for kindergartners.”
Half-true. I shot a series of summer camp-themed videos for five-year-olds last year. Made them little friendship bracelets on camera. Got paid a ridiculous amount by a children’s vitamin company. Close enough.
Saint glances toward the house, his expression puzzled. “Ivy doesn’t warm up to people. Ever.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with his attention being on me for so long, like he can spot every detail. “Kids like me. I don’t talk down to them.”
His shoulders slope, a barely perceptible softening around the edges. “You’re covered in paint.”
I look down at myself. “Occupational hazard of creativity.”
“Come on,” he says, turning toward the house. “You can wash up inside.”
I follow him across the damp lawn, conscious of my bare legs beneath the robe and the bird’s nest that my hair has surely become.
How can a man on the brink of a meltdown and a tantrum still look so damned delicious?
It makes me wonder if I’m still feeling the effects of my own breakdown two weeks ago.
Saint’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks it, and his face darkens.
“Shit.” He stares up toward the house. “I need to make some calls. The nanny agency says they’re out of options, and I’m supposed to be prepping for the governor’s dinner tonight.”
“That’s rough,” I offer, genuinely sympathetic.
Saint’s jaw works back and forth as he mulls over his situation.
“Papa!” Ivy’s voice carries from the house. “The toaster’s smoking again!”
Saint closes his eyes briefly.
“Coming!” he calls back, then fixes me with another unreadable look. “You don’t have to join us if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
He nods once, then turns and heads for the house. I follow a few steps behind, watching the way his muscles move under his shirt, trying not to stare too hard at the way those sweatpants cup his?—
No. Absolutely not. I’m not here to ogle some stranger who just had a justifiable dad-panic. Even if he does have the kind of shoulders that could probably carry both a restaurant and a kindergartner at the same time.
Snap out of it.
I’ve never had particularly good taste and men, but even this is a new low for me.
The kitchen is a disaster zone when we walk in. Smoke billows from the toaster, strawberries are scattered all over the counter, and Ivy’s standing on a chair waving a hand towel.
“I wanted to make you toast,” she announces, completely unfazed by the potential fire hazard.
Saint moves with insane speed, unplugging the toaster and opening windows. He takes the smoking appliance to the sink and dumps the charred remains of what might have been bread into the garbage disposal.
“Ivy, what have I told you about using appliances without an adult?”
His voice borders on chilling, mixed with the realization that he doesn’t want to terrify his child.
She shrugs, still standing on the chair. “I am an adult. I’m five.”
“Five is not—” Saint stops, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just … get off the chair. Please. I’ll make breakfast.”
His phone buzzes again. And again. He glances at it with a grimace.
“Do you need to take that?” I ask.
“It can wait.”
The tightness around his mouth says otherwise.
“I can watch her for a minute,” I offer. “If you need to make a call.”
Saint looks at me, protective instincts struggling with practical necessity.
His phone buzzes again. He mutters something in French.
“Go,” I say, waving him off. “I’ll make sure no appliances catch fire in your absence.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” I nod toward the hallway. “Deal with your restaurant crisis. We’ll still be in your line of sight and I can figure out breakfast. ”
Saint hesitates, then gives Ivy a stern look. “Listen to Miss Wrenley. No climbing, no cooking, no escaping.”
“No promises,” Ivy singsongs.
He shoots me one last glance. The indecision on his face would be comical if it weren’t so clearly painful for him. Then he disappears down the hall, answering his phone with a terse, “This better be important.”
Ivy watches him leave, thankfully sitting on a chair at the countertop now. “He’s gonna yell at somebody.”
“Is he?” I ask, rinsing my hands before taking over the abandoned breakfast efforts.
She nods sagely. “When his voice gets all quiet like that, it means somebody’s in big trouble.”
“Good to know,” I say, opening the refrigerator. “I’ll avoid getting in trouble with your dad.”
“Are you going to be my new nanny?” Ivy asks, swinging her legs from her perch.
The question hits me like a splash of cold water. I nearly drop the carton of eggs I’ve just pulled from the fridge.
“No, honey,” I say, cracking an egg one-handed into a bowl. “I’m just passing through.”
“Passing through where?” She tilts her head, reminding me of the sparrow from the garden.
“Life, I guess,” I say, more to myself than to her. I add another egg to the bowl. “I was planning to leave today, actually.”
“But you just got here.” Her bottom lip juts out. “That’s not fair.”
“Life rarely is,” I say, the words coming out more bitter than intended.
Wow, Wren. Way to dump your existential crisis on a kindergartner. Next, show her your therapy journal and really ruin her day .
Ivy’s face falls instantly, her small shoulders slumping as she stares down at her paint-covered hands. “Everyone leaves.”