21. Saint
TWENTY-ONE
SAINT
I vy’s words splash into my face like cold water. Pink creeps up Wrenley’s face.
“Kisses don’t fix everything, baby,” I say, my voice tight.
“They fixed it when Sleeping Beauty was asleep,” Ivy counters. “And when the frog was a frog. And when?—”
“Those are fairy tales.”
The words come out harsher than they should.
Ivy’s face falls. “Oh.”
Wrenley squeezes her hand. “But hugs help a lot. Can I have one of those?”
Ivy launches herself at Wrenley with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been starved for affection. Wrenley catches her easily, lifting her off the ground in a spinning hug that makes Ivy giggle.
The sound punches through my ribs. I haven’t heard that particular laugh in five days. The one that’s pure joy, uninhibited and bright. I’m struck by how natural they look together. How right. Wrenley’s eyes drift shut as she holds my daughter.
“Better?” Wrenley asks, opening her eyes with a smile and setting Ivy down.
“Much better.” Ivy beams up at her. “Papa needs one too. He’s been extra cranky since you left.”
“I’m standing right here,” I mutter.
“That’s why I said it loud enough for you to hear,” Ivy replies pertly.
Wrenley stares at me, chewing on her lower lip. The sight has me wanting to bite her lip for her, and maybe run my tongue along it after.
I should snap out of it. Retreat. Maintain the distance I’ve worked so hard to create.
Instead, I move closer.
“Saint.”
My name on her tongue is the barest of sounds.
Her arms come around me tentatively, like she’s afraid I’ll bolt. When I don’t, they tighten around my waist, pulling me into her warmth.
My hands span the narrow width of her back. She’s so much smaller than I remember, more fragile.
One of my hands ends up tangling in her hair, bringing her closer. I let myself sink into the hug for just a moment, plunging into the sweet scent of her hair, the way she fits against me like she was made for this exact space.
Like the past five days of pretending I didn’t need this exact feeling were a complete waste of time.
“This is nice,” Ivy announces from somewhere near our knees. “Now Papa doesn’t look like he wants to punch trees anymore.”
Wrenley’s laugh vibrates against my chest .
But she pulls back first, her cheeks flushed. “We should keep going.”
The walk continues with Ivy filling up most of the space between us.
She also breaks the charged silence by chatting about everything from squirrel behavior to cloud shapes, though my attention keeps drifting to Wrenley.
The way she moves beside me. How she automatically shortens her stride to match Ivy’s.
The soft smile that appears whenever my daughter says something particularly ridiculous.
But whenever Wrenley’s phone vibrates in her back pocket, her entire body goes rigid.
The first few times, she pulled it out, glanced at the screen, then silenced it before shoving it back into her jeans.
This time, there’s something in the way her shoulders hunch forward before she lifts her head, scanning the perimeter while she clenches her phone.
Alarm bells go off in my head.
“Everything okay?” I ask as we approach the town square.
“Fine.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just work stuff.”
A car backfires somewhere down the street, and Wrenley flinches so hard she nearly crumples to the ground. My hand shoots out to steady her, but she’s already pulled away, composing herself with visible effort.
“Is that where you live now?” Ivy points at the upper windows of Cornerstone Books.
“That’s right,” Wrenley confirms, but her attention is divided. She glances over her shoulder, scanning the street behind us.
“Can we see it?” Ivy bounces on her toes. “Please?”
“Another time,” I tell her without taking my focus off Wrenley. “I’m not about to reward you for running off, mon trésor. ”
“Fiiiiiiiine. ”
While Ivy examines a particularly interesting rock on the sidewalk, I ask Wrenley quietly, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Wrenley nods while rubbing her lips together.
She’s lying. I’ve seen this look before, on the sous chef who worked for me in Paris after he was mugged. Hypervigilance.
“You don’t have to tell me what’s going on,” I say, keeping my voice low enough that Ivy can’t hear, “but don’t lie to me either.”
Wrenley’s eyes snap to mine, wide and startled. The truth sends shock waves of raw fear across her face before she masks it with a half-smile.
“Sorry. Just jumpy lately.” She tucks her phone deeper into her pocket, fingers lingering there like she expects it to bite her if she moves away too fast. “Comes with the territory.”
I pretend ignorance. “What territory?”
She hesitates, and I can almost translate the internal debate playing across her features.
Her phone buzzes again. This time, she doesn’t even check it. She just presses her lips together so hard they turn white.
“Wrenley.” I step into her space. “What happened in Miami?”
Her entire body goes still.
“Papa, look!” Ivy interrupts, holding up a leaf shaped like a perfect heart. “It’s a love leaf! Miss Wrenley, you should keep it!”
Wrenley accepts the gift with a trembling hand and a mega-watt smile. “Thank you, sweetie.”
“Why don’t you come by the restaurant tonight?” The words tumble out before I can catch them. “For dinner.”
Wrenley’s eyes return to mine, wary and uncertain .
“Please, Miss Wrenley?” Ivy abandons her nature hunt to tug at Wrenley’s heart. “Papa makes the best pasta on Thursdays.”
“It’s just dinner,” I add, trying to keep my voice casual when there’s nothing casual about this invitation. “No expectations.”
A lie. I have a thousand expectations, most of them involving answers to questions I shouldn’t ask.
“All right,” she says finally, “What time?”
“Seven?” I suggest. “After the early rush.”
Wrenley’s phone buzzes again, drawing my attention to the way her grip tightens around it. Her eyes dart toward the bookstore, then back to me.
“Seven works,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
“Are you sleeping okay?” I ask without thinking. “Your light was on at 3 a.m. last night again.”
Wrenley freezes. “How would you know that?”
Shit. I rub the back of my neck. “Uh, the window of my back office faces the bookstore.”
At her concentrated stare, I add, “I’m usually there until two or three. The kitchen needs cleaning after service, and there’s always paperwork.”
“And you can’t help checking on me?” she asks. I’m relieved when it’s followed by a slight uptick to her mouth.
“I just want you to know you’re safe,” I confess before I can second-guess it. She looks like she needs someone to say it to her.
And mean it.
Ivy looks between us, curiosity blooming on her face.
“Safe,” Wrenley repeats, like she’s testing the word for authenticity. “That’s...” She swallows hard. “Thank you.”
Her simple gratitude ignites a ferocity in my chest usually reserved for Ivy. It makes me want to hunt down whoever caused her to be this scared in a cozy small town.
“Miss Wrenley has a cat in her apartment,” Ivy announces, clearly bored with our adult conversation. “Marcus told me. His name is Ralph, and he’s orange.”
“He’s the bookstore cat,” Wrenley clarifies, grateful for the subject change. “I pretty much pay the rent to him, not Marcus.”
“Can I meet him tonight? After dinner?”
“Ivy,” I warn.
“What? You said no rewards for running away. You didn’t say anything about after-dinner visits to cats.”
I fight a smile. My daughter, the lawyer. “We’ll see.”
Wrenley’s phone buzzes yet again. This time, her face drains of all color as she glances at the screen.
“I should go,” she says, her tone deceptively light.
Ivy wraps her arms around Wrenley’s waist one more time. “Don’t forget about dinner!”
“I won’t.” Wrenley extracts herself form Ivy’s grip and backs toward the bookstore. “Promise.”
I watch her retreat, noting how she keeps glancing around, scanning faces, checking corners. She doesn’t turn her back fully until she reaches the bookstore door, and even then, she looks over her shoulder one last time before disappearing inside.
“Papa, is Miss Wrenley okay?”
Ivy’s question mirrors my own thoughts.
“I don’t know,” I admit, keeping my eyes on the now-empty doorway. “But we’re going to make sure she will be.”