5. Wrenley
FIVE
WRENLEY
T he GPS on my phone announces that I’ve arrived at Falcon Haven’s Main Street, though I could have figured that out myself from the sudden shift from winding country roads to a charming strip of weathered storefronts that look like they belong on a postcard.
I ease Saint’s car into a parking spot on the street, taking my time to check (and double-check) that I’m within the painted lines.
The last thing I need is to give Mr. Perfectionist another reason to scowl at me.
I don’t feel comfortable just lounging in Saint’s house, his guesthouse, or his property in general, so what better way to idle away the hours I have while Ivy is in school than to enjoy the quaint small town that I’ll soon be leaving?
Falcon Haven has the storybook quality that social media filters strive to replicate, but fail to achieve.
I walk by window boxes stubbornly clinging to the last of summer’s flowers, a hardware store that probably sells fishing tackle alongside hammers, and a market called The Merc with wooden crates of apples displayed outside .
A silver-haired man sweeping outside his bookshop pauses, nods at me, then returns to his task. A woman walking her corgi smiles without slowing her pace. They see me, a newcomer in their town, but they don’t stare. Don’t approach. Don’t pull out phones for sneaky photos.
My shoulders drop an inch, and my breathing eases.
I slow my pace without thinking when a blue-and-white-striped awning comes into view. C’est Trois is written above in fancy cursive lettering.
Saint’s restaurant.
Though “restaurant” seems too ordinary a word compared to the chef behind it all.
I take five steps closer to the window, drawn by an invisible hand at the small of my back urging me forward.
Through the spotless glass, I’m able to glimpse the inner workings of Saint’s kingdom, with an open kitchen gleaming with copper and steel, and a line of white-coated staff moving around with stiff-backed confidence.
And there he is.
Saint stands out among his team, even though he’s in white like the others. His broad shoulders are squared, his neck tattoos standing out against the crisp chef’s coat as he bends over something on the counter.
His fingers move with surprising delicacy for such large hands, arranging what looks like paper-thin slices of ... something. His sheer focus radiates outward, creating a bubble of tense concentration that even I can feel through the glass.
He straightens, says something to a young man beside him who nods rapidly, then turns?—
Our eyes lock.
My heart slams against my ribs. His expression shifts from concentration to recognition to something darker.
Panic floods my system. I drop to a crouch behind a row of manicured boxwoods, the rough branches scratching my arms as I press myself against the bricks holding the plants.
“Smooth, Wrenley,” I mutter to myself.
I press my forehead against my knees, my cheeks burning as I race through the possibilities of what’s happening inside his head right now.
Maybe he thinks I’m spying on him. Perhaps he thinks I’m unstable. Maybe he thinks I’m exactly the kind of person who shouldn’t be trusted with his daughter.
But I can tell you what he’s not thinking. He’s probably not thinking about how absolutely captivating he is while in his element, full of authority and confidence, yet careful and delicate in his handling of his creations.
I peek through the branches. The spot where Saint stood is empty, and I release a breath.
Maybe he didn’t actually see me. Perhaps that look wasn’t recognition, but just his normal resting scowl face. Maybe?—
“Looking for something?”
I topple backward.
The deep voice above me sends me sprawling into the bushes. I tilt my head up to find Saint looming over me, one dark eyebrow raised, arms crossed over his chest. His chef’s coat is unbuttoned at the top, revealing the edge of a tattoo that disappears beneath the fabric.
“I was just—” My voice cracks. “I dropped my ... um...”
“Your dignity?”
His mouth twitches at the corner.
I stand, brushing dirt from my knees, acutely aware of tiny scratches stinging my forearms and the relentless burn in my cheeks.
“I panicked. I didn’t expect to see you, and then you looked at me, and I just ... reacted.”
“By hiding. ”
“It’s what I do when I’m caught off guard.”
Saint stares at me for a beat too long, then shakes his head. “Stay out of trouble, Miss Morgan.”
He turns to leave, his dismissal so abrupt that I’m left blinking in his wake.
“That’s it?” I call after him. “No lecture about lurking? No ‘stop spying on my restaurant’?”
He stops, shoulders tensing under his chef’s coat. “I don’t have time for?—”
When he turns back, his eyes drop to my forearms. His expression shifts.
“You’re bleeding.”
“What?” I look down at the small scratches left by the boxwood branches. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a few scrapes.”
He steps closer, taking my wrist in his hand. His touch is cool against my skin, professional rather than intimate, but my pulse jumps anyway. His fingers are callused, the hands of a chef who has known knives and fire.
“These need to be cleaned,” he says. “Come inside.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“You’re in charge of my daughter. I need you functional, not infected with whatever’s in those bushes.”
I roll my eyes. “Pretty sure boxwoods aren’t harboring flesh-eating bacteria.”
He releases my wrist and holds the restaurant door open. “Now.”
“You know, most people just offer a Band-Aid and send you on your way,” I say, stepping into the restaurant.
The air shifts into warm, rich scents that make my stomach clench in anticipation. Butter, herbs, sauces simmering, steam billowing, and the regular clatter of pots and pans as the staff moves around .
Saint leads me through the kitchen and past their curious glances. “I’m not most people.”
I follow him into a small office tucked behind the kitchen. “Do you rescue all the women who fall into plants, or am I special?”
His jaw tightens as he pulls a first-aid kit from a cabinet. “I just don’t like blood.”
“You’re a chef. You butcher things.”
“That’s different.” He gestures to a chair. “Sit.”
I perch on the edge, watching as he wets a cloth at a small sink.
He kneels in front of me, taking my arm with the same exactness I’d watched him plate food. His touch is clinical, but the proximity sets my skin buzzing.
“I didn’t realize you had a medical degree along with the culinary one.”
I just can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around this man. I blame it on my nerves. And his insane gorgeousness.
His eyes flick up to mine. “I don’t like smart-asses either.”
“Yet here we are.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips before vanishing. He dabs antiseptic on the scratches, and the resulting sting makes me hiss.
“Hold still.”
“I am. I’m not five.”
“Could’ve fooled me, hiding in bushes.”
His focus returns to my arm, his fingers gently cleaning the lines of red. I watch the dark ink peeking from his rolled sleeve, swirls and lines that hint at stories I don’t know.
“You make a habit of surveillance?” he asks without raising his head.
“Only when people look like they might yell at me for accidentally existing in their line of sight. ”
I watch his hands, the controlled movements.
“These aren’t deep,” he murmurs, reaching for a small packet of antibiotic ointment. “But better safe.” He rips it open with his teeth, squeezing a dab onto his finger before carefully applying it to the scratches. His touch is purposeful but so delicate, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“So,” I say, needing to fill the quiet. “C’est Trois. Clever name. The three of you?”
He pauses, his gaze still fixed on my arm. “Something like that.”
Saint reaches for a box of bandages, selecting several small ones.
As he moves to apply the first one near my elbow, the sleeve of my T-shirt rides up slightly.
His fingers brush the edge of the older, deeper marks hidden beneath, the ones that map my shoulder like angry constellations.
His hand stills. His head tilts, a question forming in his eyes as they drift upward.
“Does Ivy like it here?” I ask quickly, shifting my arm just enough to pull my sleeve back down. “The restaurant, I mean. Does she hang out in the kitchen?”
His attention snaps back to my face, the momentary curiosity replaced by his usual guarded expression. “Sometimes. When she has to.” He presses the bandage firmly onto my skin. “She prefers the pastry station. Sugar.”
“Ah, a girl after my own heart.”
He finishes applying the bandages, his movements efficient and impersonal again. Saint rises, tossing the used cloth and wrappers into a small bin. “All done. Try to stay out of the shrubbery.”
“No promises.” I stand, flexing my fingers.
He leans back against his desk, crossing his arms again, studying me. It’s an assessment that makes me feel like a particularly foreign ingredient he’s trying to figure out .
“Thanks. For the first aid.”
He shrugs. “Just needed you to be functional for Ivy.”
“Right. Ivy.” The reason I’m here. The reason he tolerates my presence. “Speaking of, her teacher seemed ... territorial this morning.”
Saint goes still. “Miss Erin is dedicated.”
“Dedicated enough to imply I was disrupting Ivy’s carefully curated emotional regulation with a mermaid braid and a shark song?”
“Erin cares about Ivy.”
“I care about Ivy, too,” I say softly. “She hugged me goodbye like she was afraid I wouldn’t come back.”
A muscle jumps in Saint’s cheek. He glances away, toward the small window overlooking a back alley. “Ivy gets attached easily.”
“Or maybe she just needs someone who doesn’t treat her like a porcelain doll about to shatter.”
The words are out before I can stop them. I suck in a horrified breath. Why did I say that?
His head snaps back toward me, his eyes flashing. “You know nothing about what Ivy needs.”